THE  FLUTE-PLAYER 

AND   OTHER    POEMS 

BY  FRANCIS  HOWARD  WILLIAMS 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
THE  KNICKERBOCKER  PRESS 


COPYRIGHT,  1894 

BY 
FRANCIS   HOWARD  WILLIAMS 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 
BY  G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Printed  and  Bound  by 

Cbc  Knickerbocker  press,  Vtew  fiork 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


CONTENTS. 


THE  FLUTE-PLAYER i 

To  BEAUTY  :  AN  ODE 9 

THE  INNER  VISION 13 

RIZZIO 19 

WOMAN  o'  THE-WATCH         ......  24 

MAGDALENE 37 

THE  WOOD  ROBIN 41 

SERVUS  SERVORUM  DEI 43 

THE  SEA 46 

AN  ANSWER 47 

ARS  LOQUITUR 48 

WINTER  RAIN 49 

PHAEDRA 51 

AN  IONIAN  FRIEZE 52 

A  DREAMER 53 

COMPENSATION 55 

AVE  AMERICA  :  AN  ODE 57 

SONNETS. 

UNCROWNED 67 

KARMA .  68 

EARTH  AND  NIGHT 69 

Sic  ITUR  AD  ASTRA 70 

AN  EARLY-APRIL  MORNING  . r-r — •        •        •  71 

FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 72 

ELECTRA 73 

BEDTIME 74 

DECORATION  DAY 75 

A  SONNET  OF  SILENCE  .        .        .                r       .  76 
iii 


2108796 


iv  Contents. 

I'AGE 

VICTOR  HUGO     (MAY  22,  1885)     ....  77 

WALT  WHITMAN,  (MAY  31,  1886) .        ...  78 

WALT  WHITMAN,  (MARCH  26,  1892)       ...  79 

To  JOHN  KEATS So 

To  HERBERT  SPENCER 81 

AN  IDLE  DAY  :  A  SEQUENCE  OF  SONNETS. 

I.  SALVE 85 

II.  HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT      ....  86 

III.  PROMISE  OF  DAWN 87 

IV.  DAYBREAK  IN  THE  WOODS         ...  88 

V.  A  WOODLAND  POET 89 

VI.  THE  FARMYARD 90 

VII.  BLENDED  VOICES 91 

VIII.  CLOVER 92 

IX.  WHISPERS  OF  THE  CORN     ....  93 

X.  MID-MORN 94 

XI.  A  WAY-SIDE  SPRING 95 

XII.  HALF  WAY  TO  ARCADY      ....  96 

XIII.  A  WILD  ROSE 97 

XIV.  ROADWAY  DUST 98 

XV.  WHEAT  BILLOWS 99 

XVI.  REMEMBRANCE 100 

XVII.  ASPIRATION 101 

XVIII.  CLOUD-MAGIC 102 

XIX.  THE  BROOK 103 

XX.  THE  TWILIGHTS 104 

XXI.  PERSPECTIVE 105 

XXII.  FANTASY 106 

XXIII.  NOCTURNE 107 

XXIV.  VALE          .        .        .        .        .        .        .108 

A  PRIMROSE  PATH  :  SONGS  AND  TRIFLES. 

BETWEEN       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  in 

CRADLE  SONG 112 

CAPRICE .  114 

A  SERENADE  .        .        .        .        .        .                .  115 


Contents.  v 

PAGE 

A  PRIMROSE  PATH  :  SONGS  AND  TRIFLES.     (Cent.) 

LOVE  CAME  TO  ME 116 

FLOWER  o' THE  SEA 117 

MARGUERITE ng 

THE  WAY  o'  THE  WORLD      .         .        .        .         .120 

PHILOSOPHY-IN-LlTTLE 121 

CUPID  AND  JUSTICE 122 

A  RONDEAU  OF  VASSAR          .        .        .        .        .123 

EVOLUTION  OF  THE  POET 124 

BALLADE  TO  A  BOOKMAN 124 

A  RONDEAU  IN  REPLY 125 

BALLADE        .        .        .        .        .        .         .         .126 

RONDEAU 127 

Acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  Publishers  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
Harper's  Weekly,  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  The  Independent,  and  other 
periodicals,  for  permission  to  reprint  in  this  volume  certain  pieces  of  verse 
which  originally  appeared  in  the  pages  under  their  control. 


THE  FLUTE-PLAYER. 


'"THRICE  a  score  of  candles,  flaring,  An  bravely  flare 
1  Fashion  shadows  on  the  wall,  fetffii°f  'he 

While  the  loftier  lights  are  glaring        Jg5b£jn 
Over  all  the  festival ;  the  symphony. 


With  a  visage  melancholy  And  albeit  each 

•  one  thinketh 

Meditates  the  dark  Bassoon,  but  of  his  own 

part,  yet  the 

Glows  the  'Cello's  face  as  jolly  wholeness  of  the 

*        *  symphony  suf- 

As  a  yellow  harvest-moon.  fereth  no  mar- 

nng  thereby ; 

Lean  the  Oboe  and  eager,  For,  of  a  truth,  u 

.  ls  here  as  with 

With  a  sharp,  uplifted  chin  :  the  music  of 

.  humanity,  to  the 

Bald  and  red,  and  seeming  meagre        which  tho1  ail 

.  ,        -         -T-      .  must  contribute, 

In  hlS  Drams,  the  first  VlOlm  :  many  an  one 

furmsheth  a 
note  that  is  but  a  discord  to  that  of  his  fellow. 


But  the  Flute  with  shoulders  bended    ^nd  one  player 

thinketh  but  of 

And  his  scantly  silvered  head,  —       being  done  with 

as  small  pain  as 

Ah  !  what  present  joys  are  blended       may  be,  and 

1  another  reckon- 

With  the  sorrows  that  are  fled.          «h  how  he  shall 

expend  the  wage 
of  his  labor  in  rioting  and  wantonness. 


Why,  tho'  haply  he  remembers 
Vanished  gleams  of  Paradise, 


2  The  Mute-Player. 

But  the  Flute-       Glow  love's  unextinguishcd  embers 

Player,  who  .  .  ' 

siueth  \veii  Deeply  in  his  faded  eyes  ? 

stricken  in 
years,  seemeth 
to  have  learned 
somewhat  of  the 

secret  of  life,         Strange  that  songs  forever  borrow 
that  hath  found         From  the  past  their  sweetest  lay  ! 

Truth  in  the  ., 

sweet  shows  of       Strange  that  every  silver  morrow 

Nature.    So  that 

no  sooner  hath  Has  a  golden  yesterday  ! 

the  music  begun, 

than  he  seeth, 

as  it  were  by  the 

inner  eye  of  the       0  a       .  , 

spirit,  himself  a     Strange  !     the      flutist,     bowed    and 

lad. 

slender, 

Marks  no  more  the  baton's  lead, 
As  he  breathes  a  message  tender 
Thro'  his  mild  and  mellow  reed. 


For  the  player  in  his  dreaming 

And  the  gay  0  i  •  ir  •  t_ 

Allegro  Sees  himself  again  a  boy, 

quickeneth  his          -•-.•     j>  i      11   j.u 

pulses.  Finding  real  all  the  seeming 

Of  life's  sudden  cup  of  joy  ; 


And  full  soon  Heal"S  the  ffetted  mUslc  "nging 

he  groweth  Down  the  corridors  of  art, 

ware  of  the 

hoodhofman         Hears  love's  voice  eternal  singing 
Thro'  the  chambers  of  his  heart ; 


Feels  a  touch  of  tenderest  meaning 

For  his  sweet-o'-  ~         .  .  ,  . 

heart  cometh  Steal  into  his  soul  again, 

tripping  adown  .  .  .       ,  ., 

a  green  country     As  a  maid  o  er  April  greening 

lane. 

Saunters  down  a  country  lane  ; 


The  Flute-Player.  3 

There  is  nothing  to  dissemble,  And  io !  she  is 

Naught  to  fear  in  love's  behest,  onTandVe'r  '°°k 

Where  the  violets  lie  a-tremble  fs^a  ba!s^mg 

In  the  heaven  of  her  breast.  to  his  eves- 

Is  it  but  the  morning's  blessing 

That  the  maiden  looks  so  fair  ?  Jh.e  P1^ye.r. 

dallyeth  with 

Is  it  but  the  warm  caressing  the  vision. 
Of  the  sunlight  in  her  hair  ? 

(Suddenly  a  dulcet  blending  Then  cometh  a 
Of  the  strings  and  oboe    _  he 

Marks  the  gay  allegro's  ending  regretful'11  aU 

In  a  flood  of  harmony.  thereof> 

Then  in  slow  and  solemn  number 

The  adagio  begins, 
Fraught  with  harmonies  that 

Gloriously  the  violins.)  weii,rand'  ° 

*  forasmuch  as  all 

the  players  obey 

the  wand  of  him 

...  .  who  leadeth,  the 

Haply  some  melodious  motion,  end  thereof  is 

Born  of  music's  eloquence,  foTveni'y 

T     ,,  ,         i          TI  A"  Obedience  is 

Lulls  to  slumber  like  a  potion  the  gate  to 

Ravishing  the  spirit's  sense  ;  Knowiedfe'is111 

Truth,  and 
Truth  is  Beauty. 

For  again  the  old  Flute-Player 

Dreams  away  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Idle  as  a  sunburnt  strayer 

In  the  fields  of  Arcady. 


4  The  Flute-Player. 

There,  within  his  vision  standing. 

\et  the  players 

are  sordid  Smiles  the  love  of  all  his  life. 

being  but  blind 

followers,  L^g  a  maiden  bud  expanding 

wedded  each  to  .          . 

his  own  husks.  TO  the  flower  he  calls  his  wife. 

And  the  stately,  cadenced  measure 

Of  the  rich  adagio, 
Woven  thro'  remembered  pleasure, 

Woofed  of  half-forgotten  woe, 

And  betimes          Comes  with  wisdom  of  the  ages 
Fiut^iayer  Pulsing  in  its  ebb  and  flow, 

swe'et-o'-heart  •      Laden  with  the  lore  of  sages 

From  the  land  of  Long-Ago. 

And  a  cottage  in  the  sunlight 
NOW  become  Sheds  the  glory  of  the  sun, 

Wherein  magic,  from  his  one  light, 
Many  lights  of  love  has  won  ; 

And  he  heareth     For  the  low  voice  of  a  woman, 

the  babble  of  /~«U'U          >     i  i  t. 

children  in  the  Children  s  laughter,  merry  cries, 

fng]e°  Come  in  tones  divinely  human 

From  an  earthly  Paradise. 


And  ere  he  well     "  We\\  I  love  faem  J  "    jn  a  broken 

knoweth,  the 

time  hath  pas't         Whisper  'neath  the  murmurous  trees; 

to  the  ripe  o  the 

year  and  '  Well  I  love  them  !  "  partly  spoken 

middle-age  hath 

come-  Thro'  the  sympathetic  keys. 


The  Flute-Player.  5 

"  Is  it  better  pain  and  pleasure  And  lo,  he 

To  remember  or  forget  ?  starteth  as  the 

measure  of  the 

Is  it  —  '?  Ah!  they  change  the  measure  ;musjc  changeth 

*  to  the  stately 

This  is  sure  the  minuet  !  "  Minuet. 

And  the  player  all  sedately 

Scans  his  notes  with  eyesight  worn, 

While  the  movement  lapses  stately 
As  a  breeze  among  the  corn,  p^t^of  his 

dreams  ariseth 
before   him,  and 

Till  the  tones  a  subtler  meaning  nianstethhapaceler 

Garner  from  the  vanished  years,  ^MSr? 

O'er  life's  fields  of  harvest  gleaning  '^^{^f"1 

Aftermath  of  many  tears.  wi^h/rnaivtins' 

*  and  dulled  the 

lustre  of  his 
eyes. 

Fleet  before  him  evanescent 

Seasons  thro'  their  courses  run, 
Light  as  dewdrops  iridescent 

In  the  laughter  of  the  sun  ; 

And  the  robin  of  the  ring-time 

Learns  to  pipe  a  lovelier  tune  ; 
And  the  bride  of  early  springtime 

Is  the  sweeter  wife  of  June. 


Comes  the  warm,  sun-soaked  Septem- 

i  And  it  pleaseth 

Der,  him  well  to 

Life's  wine  red  upon  the  lees  ;        thTSughter  's 
Comes  the  rimy-lipped  November,      grandchildren 
Children's  children  at  his  knees. 


The  Flute-Player. 


Onward,  ever  onward  speeding, 

and  their  right  °' 

merry  pother  What  is  this  the  old  man  sees  ? 

that  come  unto 

him  from  the  "f  is  the  baton  deftly  leading 

bars  of  the  '                         . 

lively  Scherzo.  Thro'  the  scherzo  s  harmonies. 


Suddenly  in  tones  supernal, 

SnhatnSPut          Earthward  borne  in  lordlier  rhyme, 
o?reaHty!tmenlS     Comes  the  boom  of  waves  eternal, 
Breaking  on  the  sands  of  time. 

Forio!  the  Whence  the  rapture  in  the  gazing 

fromVutaVs'the         Of  the  aged  flutist's  eyes  ? 
sound  of  the         Whence  the  tenderness  amazing 

instruments 

dieth  away.  jn  ^g  weddcd  harmonies  ? 

Why  should  he,  thro'  every  turning 
more^he  wand  Of  the  mellow  symphony, 

of  the  leader.  pjay  ^  gingle  ^^  then  spurning 

All  control,  seem  but  to  be 

Sunder^nd'0"      Fluting  fast  and  ever  faster 
Diev7ne°b^ckon-          Thro'  the  music's  crowded  bars, 
ing  from  the          Le(j  ^y  a  ceiestial  master 

firmament.  • 

Beating  time  among  the  stars  ? 


The  Flute-  Ah  !  he  hears  a  cadence  woven, 

are^ravishTwith        As  a  thread  of  song  might  be, 

vast  harmonies         ~  . .     .          _.         , 

ineffable.  By  a  more  divine  Beethoven 

Thro'  a  mightier  symphony. 


The  Flute-Player.  7 

In  his  fading  eyes  the  story 

Of  a  life  is  written  fair  ; 
O'er  his  brow  a  summer  glory 

Warms  the  winter  in  his  hair. 

And  he  breath- 

And  as  down  remembered  valleys        melody  through 
Love  and  youth  together  stroll,        The  "o'nes  grow 

rr>t         »   .i_       a     A    »  n'/i  11  celestial,  for  lo  ! 

1  hro  the  flute  s  mellifluent  alleys       the  Flute-Player 
He  is  breathing  out  his  soul.  -SffiS^ 

eth  out  divinely. 


Struck  with  sudden  admiration,  Andaiithe 

,,,  players  stand 

Falls  the  leader  s  nerveless  hand  ;  dumb,  being 

„,  .  /•   j-     •  i    ,_•  wrought  upon 

ConSClOUS  Of  dlVine  elation,  by  a  deep  awe  ; 

All  the  men  in  wonder  stand  ; 


In  their  eyes  strange  fires  are  burning  ; 

Each  melodic  voice  is  mute,  c^inue^h'6 

Save  the  pure  impassioned  yearning 

Of  the  liquid-throated  flute. 

It  is  the  Finale. 

Every  movement  has  been  rendered 

Sanctified  from  days  of  yore,  And,  of  a  truth, 

All  the  instruments  have  tendered      SSTw^fio 

Reverence  to  the  glorious  score. 


tones  be  blended 
in  harmony  and 
A  11  L  •        i     j    •       Ai        i  discord,  yet  't  is 

All  have  mingled  in  the  heaven  the  pleading  of 

T»  TJJJ,.  j  A  tne  single  voice 

Born  of  wedded  tone  and  tone  ;       that  reacheth  to 

IT,,        c       i  ,  .   i          •  the  everlasting 

The  finale  must  be  given  ears. 

By  the  soulful  flute  alone. 


8  The  Flute-Player. 

Many  men  shall  ^y     ^g  symphony,   tho'  blended 

mingle  in  the  *  ' 

world  but 'tis  jn  accordance  loud  and  long, 

the  naked  soul 

which  must  Sinks  at  last,  when  all  is  ended. 

come  alone  to 

the  altar-steps  TO  the  pleading  of  a  song. 

of  God; 


Still  the  candles)  weirdly  flaring, 
Fashion  shadows  on  the  wall, 

Still  the  loftier  lights  are  glaring 
Over  all  the  festival. 

Hark  !  Is  this  a  sigh  or  singing 
Jietehfli±g  Dying  on  the  listening  air  ? 

Sllence-  'T  is  the  flute's  voice,  upward  winging 

Like  a  music-laden  prayer. 

And  a  hush  in  benediction 
SwTngSs         O'er  the  bended  man  is  shed  ; 
Death  that  glorifies  affliction 

Wreathes    an    aureole    'round   his 
head. 

The  symphony 

is  finish't,  but  .  . 

its  last  chords        And  his  fingers  still  are  pressing 

havebeen  sound-  ,-.    .       .  ,  .... 

ed  beyond  the  VOlCClcSS  keys  With  loving  art, 

*T  hi'oniy  the        Still  the  silent  flute  caressing 

Flute-Player  „         ,          ..  r  i   •      i 

who  hath  heard         On  the  silence  of  his  heart. 

the  final 
harmony. 


TO  BEAUTY:  AN  ODE. 


"  I  ^HERE  comes  a  sure  uplifting  of  the  soul ; 

Forth  leaps  a  light  late  shadowed  in  eclipse 
Before  my  seeking  gaze  the  vapors  roll 

Backward,  and  bursts  the  new  apocalypse  ! 
In  this  large  moment,  Spirit  of  Beauty,  thou 
That  dost  possess  me  with  thy  loveliness, 
I  am  elate  to  feel  thee,  know  thee  mine, 
To  wrap  my  being  in  the  sense  of  joy 
Which  is  thy  being,  till  thou  dost  endow 
My  soul  with  love  heroic  and  the  stress 
Of  high  endeavor.     Life  hath  no  alloy, 
So  touched  upon  by  thee,  but  grows  divine 
In  potency  of  action,  power  of  nobleness. 


ii. 


An  hour  of  youth  that  dreams  of  no  hereafter, 
A  day  of  toil  amid  encircling  fears, 

The  comradeship  of  human  loves  and  laughter, 
The  sanctifying  grace  of  human  tears  ; 

A  weary  waiting  through  the  years  that  cumber, 
A  weary  sowing  that  the  world  may  reap, 
9 


IO  To  Beauty  :    An  Ode. 

A  silent  drooping  of  the  head  to  slumber, 

A  silent  closing  of  the  eyes  to  sleep. 
And  this  is  life,  which  thy  fair  ministries 

Have  made  to  me  a  dream  of  solemn  joys, — 
In  candid  sunlight,  with  the  somnolent  bees, 
In  glorious  glooms  of  forest  sacristies, 

In  green  recesses  where  the  fret  and  noise 
Of  the  defeated,  despicable  world 

Come  not  to  break  the  bliss  of  solitude. 
Ah  !  beacon  hurled 

From  God's  hand   into  trackless  nights  of 

mind, 

By  thy  fair  light  I  find 
The  hidden  flaws  of  the  philosophies, — 

The  nerveless  food 
Of  earth-bred  natures  barren  of  the  skies. 

III. 

What  time  the  Spring  had  wantoned  with  the  trees 
And  wrought  a  pallor  over  Arcady, 
Thou  earnest  to  me  robed  as  one  might  be 
Who  ministered  to  Love's  high  revelries, 
And  didst  uplift  me  with  thy  starry  eyes, 
Till  I,  divine  in  thy  divinity, 
Encompassed  heaven  in  being  loved  of  thee, 
And  drew  from  Paradise 

Delight  to  a  sad  world  all  rapturously. 
To  touch  thy  hair  the  sun  had  quit  the  skies  ; 
And  joy  upon  thy  brow  had  fallen  on  sleep, 
Being  surfeited  with  sweets  which  still  did  keep 
The  portals  of  thy  uncompanioned  lips  ; 


To  Beauty  :  A  n  Ode.  \  i 

And  in  the  woven  cadence  of  thy  sighs 

I    heard     Love's     song    wherethrough     light 

laughter  slips, — 

Life's  undertone  that  cannot  choose  but  weep. 
And  I  spread  wide  my  arms,  but  thou  wert  gone  ; 
Naught  left  but  memory's  mocking  counterpart, — 

The  wafted  fragrance  of  thy  outblown  hair, 
Subtle  as  odors  of  the  Summer's  heart ; 

And  in  the  lambent  and  unpeopled  air 
A  vision  fading  as  a  dream  at  dawn. 


IV. 


Is  it  but  Fancy  that  doth  sometimes  cheat 
Our  wayward  pulses  into  quietude, — 
A  stern  necessity  of  joy,  a  mood 
Begotten  of  much  yearning  upon  thee, 

Spirit  that  bearest  wings  upon  thy  feet 

And  laurel  on  thy  white  unageing  brows, — 
Spirit  of  streams  and  woodland  minstrelsy 
And  Art's  high  heritage  that  with  faith  endows 

Lives  else  all  incomplete  ? 

I  only  know  thou  dost  vouchsafe  delight, 
Born  of   the  morning  and  the   sweet-breath'd 
night 

And  silent  hills  that  lift  their  fronts  to  woo 
The  upper  air's  yet  deeper  silences, 
The  while  the  thoughtful  twilight  hovers  nigh 

To  stay  the  fretting  of  the  leaves,  as  who 
Should  murmur  :  u  Peace  a  little,  it  is  I," 
And  ever  in  profounder  whispers,  "  Peace  "  ; 


12  To  llcauty  :  An  Ode. 

The  pale  light  fading  from  clear  winnowed  skies 

As  fleeting  colors  from  the  face  of  Fear  ; 
A  bird-song  that  releases  rhapsodies, 
And  dies  into  the  lucent  solitude 
With  such  divine  decadence,  that  I  hear 

Remembered  music  in  an  interlude 
Of  visions  alien  grown  to  un remembering  eyes. 


v. 


And  I  shall  never  lose  thee  ;  thou  dost  keep 

Tryst  with  my  soul. 

In  patins  wrought  of  daisies  on  the  meads, 
In  violets  lifting  scented  lips  to  God, 
Haply  in  songs  that  flood  the  aisles  of  sleep, 
Upon  the  fretting  of  unceasing  needs 
I  feel  the  soothing  and  the  sure  control 

Of  thy  cool  fingers.     In  each  greening  sod 
Is  written  thy  evangel,  and  the  ways 

Thy  feet  have  trod 
Are  redolent  of  all  fair  flowers  that  are, 

While  in  thy  deep  commemorative  gaze 
Peace  lingers  like  an  upward-pointing  star. 


THE    INNER   VISION. 

\  ADHERE  the  sky  in  sleep  and  silence  dreams 

away  the  drowsy  days, 
And  the    sunlit    spaces    shimmer   in    the    films  of 

golden  haze, 
Great   Antonio,    he   of   Spezzia,    slowly   thro'   the 

seasons  wrought, 
Striving  ever  to  embody  that  which  his  profounder 

thought 
Found  elusive  as  a  perfume,  or  the  melody  that 

dwells 
(Heard  thro'  misty  miles  of  distance,)  in  the  pulses 

of  the  bells  ; 
Till  at  last  the  storied  canvas  in  triumphant  colors 

bore, 

Perfect  as  a  strain  of  music  'prisoned  thus  forever- 
more, 
One  fair  form  enfolded  in  the  rare  celestial  light 

it  wore. 

Here,  where  fountains  lightly  lisp  of  love  to  roses 

leaning  low, 
Staunch  in  friendship,  dwelt  the  kinsmen  Valentine 

and  Angelo  ; 
Valentine  was  brave   and  brawny,  hot  the  blood 

within  his  veins ; 

13 


14  77/6'  Inner  Vision. 

His  the  strength  to  show  compassion  to  the  weak- 
ness it  disdains  ; 

His  the  supple  nerve  and  sinew,  and  the  step  which 
lightly  trod  ; 

His  the  shoulders  of  a  hero  and  the  temples  of  a 
god. 

But  for  Angelo  the  thoughtful,  dreaming  ever  of  a 
goal, 

Where  eternal  wreaths  of  laurel  wait  to  crown  the 
victor  soul, 

Life  was  but  the  budding  promise  of  a  later,  fairer 
flower  ; 

Joy  the  prelude  to  an  anthem  ;  love  the  folly  of 
an  hour ; 

Pride  of  strength  the  badge  of  weakness  ;  gentle- 
ness the  test  of  power. 

So  when  wide  the  fame  was  bruited  of  Antonio's 

matchless  skill, 
And  the  finished  picture  proved  the  triumph  of 

creative  will, 
These  two,  singly,  looked  upon  its  tender  curve 

and  living  line, 
Gloried   in   its   wealth    of    color,    recognized    the 

touch  divine, 
Saw  and  loved  and  praised  it,  each  to  other,  with 

unstinted  breath, 
Saying,  "T  is  a  thing  immortal,  Tonio  was  not 

made  for  death  !  " 
And  as  Valentine  enkindled  with  the  beauty  and 

the  grace 


The  Inner  Vision.  1 5 

Of  the  masterful  creation,  stirred  his  life  to  quicker 

pace, 
And   the    wild   blood,   in    its    flood-tide,    painted 

passion  on  his  face. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed,     "what    deeper    rapture,  in  a 

world  grown  gray  with  prayer, 
Than  to  lose  one's  sense  of  being  in  the  perfume  of 

her  hair  ; 
In  one  mad  transcendent  moment, — "  Quick,  with 

hand  uplifted  high, 
"  Hold  !  "  cried  Angelo  in  pallor,  "  Stay  thy  word 

of  blasphemy  ! 
By  Our  Lady's  gracious  presence,"  (here  he  crossed 

himself  in  haste) 
"Thou,  tho'  more  than  friend  or  brother,  shalt  not 

find  mine  ear  debased 
To  the  level  of  thy  lewdness.     Hath  some  Circe 

turned  us  swine  ? 
Is  the  world  with  dregs  so  drunken  that  it  cannot 

taste  the  wine  ? " 
Then,  hot  flaming  in  his  anger,  "Thou  art  mad," 

quoth  Valentine  ; 
"  Mad  the  word  and  mad  the  gesture  ;  thou  hast 

o'er  thy  parchments  bent 
Till  thy  blood  hath  lost  true  color  and  thy  flame  of 

life  is  spent  ; 
Thou     wouldst    preach    a   stern    evangel    as  our 

holiest  heritage,- — 

On  youth's  fair  unruffled  forefront  write  the  mes- 
sages of  age. 


1 6  The  Inner  Vision. 

Is  it  sin  to  worship  Beauty   wheresoe'er  its  shrine 

may  be  ? 

Is  it  shame  to  wed  the  pulses  of  a  wide  humanity  ? 
Thou,  mayhap,  canst  chant  a  paean  to  the  joys  of 

dead  desire, 
Since  no  Circe  hath  debased  thee  till  thou  darest  to 

admire 
Fair  and  fatal  Aphrodite,  born  of  Foam  and  bred 

of  Fire  !  " 

"What!"    spake    Angelo,  uprising,    "Aphrodite! 

Heaven  be  kind  ! 
Nay,  \  is  thou  art  mad  of  surety  ;  overfeeding  dulls 

thy  mind  ; 
'T  is  Antonio's  chiefest  glory  that  his  work  bespeaks 

his  heart  ; 
He  ne'er  found  in  pagan  harlots  lips  to  lure  the 

kiss  of  Art. 
That  fair  form  upon    his    canvas    is  our  Blessed 

Lady,  she 

More  divine  for  being  human,  earthlier  for  divinity. 
In  the  false  pride  of  thy  power,  thou  hast  scorned 

to  kiss  the  rod  ; 
Thou  hast  dared  to  flaunt  thine  offal  in  the  very 

face  of  God ! 
But  enough  !    Words  fall  to  folly  ;    test  of   truth 

alone  is  wise  ; 
'T  is  the  master  who  shall  tell  us  whether  in  those 

radiant  eyes 
Gleams  the  fire  of  wanton  Venus  or  the  Virgin's 

Paradise." 


The  Inner  Vision.  i  / 

So  they  strode  [with  eager  footsteps  to  the  cool 
pavilion  where 

Sat  Antonio,  grave,  and  aureoled  in  a  wealth  of 
wintered  hair  ; — 

Put  before  him  all  the  quarrel  which  so  deep  their 
souls  had  stirred  ; 

Vehemently  questioned,  then  awaited  his  decisive 
word. 

As  they  ceased  the  master  slowly  lifted  his  pro- 
phetic eyes, 

While  a  smile,  half  hid,  betokened  more  of  sadness 
than  surprise : 

"Ye,  my  sons,  have  yet  to  learn  the  deepest, 
holiest  truth  in  art ; 

Each  beholder  sees  before  him  only  that  which 
fills  his  heart ; 

Eyes  anointed  by  the  spirit's  finer  touch  to  nobler 
sight 

Ever  catch  the  dawn  of  angel  faces  through  Cim- 
merian night ; 

But  to  him  whose  soul  is  fettered  in  the  meshes  of 
desire 

Saints  are  satyrs  tho'  the  artist  dip  his  brush  in 
living  fire. 

Thou,  oh  Angelo,  hast  pondered  long  on  visions 
heavenly  fair, 

Till  the  beautiful  Madonna  smiles  upon  thee  every- 
where ; 

But  for  thce,  my  strong-thewed,  lusty  Valentine, 
with  heart  of  flame, 


1 8  The  Inner  Vision. 

Thy  luxurious  Venus  tempts  thee  till  thy  lips  pro- 
nounce her  name. 
For  the  answer  to  your  question,  know,  my  sons, 

ye  both  are  wrong, 

All  the  beauties  on  my  canvas  to  humanity  belong  ; 
Through   the   weary   years    I    labored,    seeking   a 

celestial  sign, 
Then   I  painted    simply    Woman,   finding  nothing 

more  divine." 
Here  Antonio  paused.     In  silence,  heart  to  heart, 

and  hand  to  hand, 
Stood   the  friends  with  lowered  eyelids,  humbler 

each  to  understand  ; 
And  their  chastened  ears   grew  conscious  of  the 

callings  of  the  sea, 
Lighter  than  the  lambent  rumor  of  the  wind  across 

the  lea, — 
Softer  than  the  sunlight  sleeping  on  the  slopes  of 

A  ready. 


RIZZIO. 

(A    FRAGMENT.) 

HOLYROOD,  March  9,  1566.  A  banquet  table 
in  disorder.  At  back,  the  Countess  of  Argyle, 
swooning  in  her  chair.  Grouped  apart,  their  swords 
red  with  the  blood  of  Rizzio,  stand  the  lords 
Darnley,  Morton,  Ruthven,  Lindsay,  and  George 
Douglass.  Seated  near  the  centre  is  Mary  Stuart, 
leaning  despairingly  upon  the  table,  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  Rizzio,  wounded  unto  death,  is  at 
her  feet,  clinging  to  her  girdle  and  striving  to  reach 
her  face. 

Rizzio. 

EE  how  they  stand  apart,  these  lords,  whose 

hands 

Have  bungled  i'  the  work,  else  had  their  points 
Made  me  a  cleaner  exit.     They  mayhap, 
Granting  short  shrift,  would  yet  bestow  a  balm 
To  soothe  the  pang  and  poison  of  the  end. 
My  Queen  !  thy  throat  is  stung  to  sudden  flowers, 
Tinct  with  strange  colors  new  begot  of  love  ; 
May  I  not  kiss  thee  on  the  mouth  and  eyes, 
Seeing  how  sternly  this  gaunt  foe  denies 
All  quarter  to  the  vanquished  ? 
19 


2o  Rizzio. 

Let  me  hear 

The  old,  quick  breathing,  breaking  to  desire, 
To  lull  the  sense  and  turn  the  pulses  mad. 
I  am  a  penitent ;  ah,  gracious  Love, 
Be  thou  my  rosary,  and  let  me  tell 
My  sins  upon  thy  perfectness  ;  as  here. 
Where  shadows  make  a  twilight  of  thy  hair, 
I  've  dared  to  feel  myself  a  very  god. 
Or  here,  renascent  in  thy  eyes,  have  dreamed 
That  no  diviner  beacon  burns  in  heaven. 
O  !  little  mouth,  half  rounded  to  a  song, — 
Swift  shuddering  with  an  indrawn  lisp  of  love, 
My  soul  hath  lost  itself  to  compass  thee 
And  rues  no  whit  the  barter. 

Mary. 

Prithee  peace  ! 
For  God's  love  turn  thy  gaze  to  heaven. 

Rizzio. 

And  so 
Gaze  still,  my  Queen,  on  thee. 

Nay,  nay,  fear  not ; 

The  poisoned  chalice  destined  to  my  lips 
Is  sweeter  that  I  drain  it  at  thy  feet. 
Ah  !  the  wounds  rankle  !     It  will  not  be  long, 
For  see  how  gorgeous  the  cold  stone  hath  grown 
In  colors  of  my  life 


Rizzio.  2 1 

Mary. 

Mother  of  pain  ! 
Be  thou  compassionate 

Rizzio. 

There  were  no  need 

To  pray  compassion  did  God  please  to  grant 
But  one  hour  longer  ;  but  the  ebb  hath  set 
Strong  on  the  scarlet  sea. 

Cease  weeping,  Sweet, 
Libations  such  as  this  become  divine 
In  being  offered. 

Mary. 

Ay.     But  on  the  same 
Sad  altar  of  my  heart  I  lay  a  heart's 
Petition.     I,  who  brought  a  song  from  France, 
Have  heard  but  thunder  from  these  Scottish  hills, 
And  for  the  cates  and  dainties  of  delight 
Have  been  made  drunk  with  blood. 

Sweet  Heaven,  hear 

A  prayer  for  justice,  and  endow  the  arm 
Of  him  whose  life  is  yet  a  part  of  mine 
With  puissance  to  right  a  hideous  wrong. 

Rizzio. 
Nay,  nay  ;  leave  justice  ;  I  would  speak  of  love. 


22 

Mary, 

And  love  is  justice. 

Ah,  poor  clammy  brows  ! 
And  kindly  eyes  that  I  have  found  so  fair  ! 
Would  God  a  queen  were  not  so  poor  a  thing, 
Beggared  of  easement  to  a  friend     . 

Rizzio. 

But  stoop 

A  little  nearer  till  I  feel  thee  through, 
And  catch  life's  light  distilment  spent  like  wine 
Upon  the  lip's  curve.     So  !  thine  eyes  are  fires, 
Quenched  and  relighted  where  the  drooping  lids 
Turn  gold  to  umber.     Ah,  yet  nearer,  Sweet ; 
My  lips  are  hot,  but  soon  shall  wed  wet  clay, 
And  grow  less  passionate  when  my  mouth  is  filled 
With  pitiless  earth. 

Methinks,  in  faith,  to  ask 
A  hearing  loverwise  were  little  now, 
For  that  the  warmth  of  my  embrace  falls  off 
In  touching  Death. 

Mary. 

Nay,  I  am  here,  look  up  ; 
Start  not  so  wild  ! 

Rizzio  (brokenly). 

The  fragrance  of  thy  breath 
Fades  to  the  faint  remembrance  of  a  joy 
Too  fine  to  linger. 


Rizzio.  23 

Prithee, — speak  more  close, — 
My  ears  are  strangely  dull, — and  yet, — and  yet 
I  hear  the  wrack  of  bursting  worlds  ! 

More  close, — 
God  !    I   am   blind. — More   close, — and  guide  my 

hands 
To  find  again  thy  face. 

Ah,  Heart  of  mine  ! 
Death  is  so  potent ! — It  is  very  dark, — 
Night  hath  no  stars. — 

I  drain  this  stirrup-cup 
For  love — and  for  the  Queen  ! 

(He  clings  to  Mary's  knees,  and  then  rolls  over 
upon  the  floor.  George  Douglass  snatches  Darnley's 
dagger,  and,  reaching  across  Mary's  lap,  drives  it 
into  the  dead  body  of  Rizzio.) 

Douglass. 

This  for  the  King  ! 


WOMAN-O'-THE-WATCH. 

I. 

A    SLOPING  stretch  of  beach  that  bore  away 

Monotonously  northward,  while  beyond, 
Across  the  glintings  of  a  little  bay 
Indented  in  the  coast-line,  lay  more  beach 
That  feathered  off  to  mist  and  lost  itself 
In  indistinguishable  haze  of  sand  and  sky. 
Nearer,  a  reef  that  ever  at  low  tide 
Rose  with  bared  head  and  looked  askance  to  land 
Like  some  poltroon  detected  in  a  lie  ; 
While  over  all  there  hung  the  neutral  tints 
Of  a  cool  sea-sky,  cumbered  at  its  edge 
With  masses  of  gray  cloud,  and  flecked  across, 
Nearer  the  zenith,  with  pale  nimbus  strips 
That  scudded  to  the  South  before  the  wind. 
A  path  ran  backward  from  the  beach's  edge, 
Beginning  at  the  place  where  the  scant  sedge 
Made  a  path's  presence  visible,  and  thence, 
Leading  o'er  bits  of  firmer  ground,  it  wound 
With  indirect  directness  to  the  mill, — 
The  mill,  a  crazy  tower  with  arms  atop, 
That  caught  a  fragment  of  the  untamed  wind 
And  chained  it  to  the  bidding  of  the  town. 
Half  a  mile  back  the  streaks  of  south-blown  smoke, 
24 


Woman-o -the-  Watch.  25 

Which  left  the  cottage  chimneys  palely  blue, 
Whitened  and  faded,  and  in  fading  formed 
The  dim  horizon's  dusk. 

Below,  the  shore 

Grew  bolder,  and  a  little  wharf  was  built, 
Littered  with  anchors,  nets,  and  half  worn  ropes, 
And  quaint,  mysterious  masses  of  hard  hemp 
Smelling  of  tar  and  salt.     A  sloop  there  was 
That  rode  with  lazy  motion  on  the  swell 
And  curtsied  to  the  strand,  while  fishing-boats, 
Bearing  bright-blazoned  titles  'thwart  the  sterns, 
Bespoke  the  occupation  of  the  town. 

Now  the  slant  shadows  of  the  dipping  masts 
Tapered  to  spar-like  spindles,  long  and  lean 
As  nodding  needles,  for  the  day  declined 
And  the  flat-falling,  low-reclining  rays 
Told  that  the  time  lacked  but  a  transient  hour 
Of  sunset. 

Hence  it  was  that  silent  steps 
Which  lately  lingered  on  the  yielding  sand 
Grew  quicker, — steps  of  two  whose  threads  of  life 
Seemed  confluent  :    one  a  man  with  sun-browned 

face, 
Broad    shouldered,    heavy    limbed ;     not    lacking 

grace, 

Yet  of  all  grace  unconscious  ;  such  an  one 
As  years  of  sea  life  might  be  looked  to  make  : 
The  other  a  slight  girl,  with  form  as  lithe 
As  willow,  and  her  hair  as  full  of  lights 
And  deepening  shadows  as  a  forest  stream. 
And  these  two  seemed  intent  on  their  one  theme, 


26  Woman  o  -t lie-  Watch. 

Unmindful  of  all  else  without  the  world 
Which  held  their  love,  for  they  were  to  be  wed 
— God  willing — on  the  morning  of  the  day 
Which  brought  another  week,  and  even  now 
The  man  (Edward  she  called  him)  whispered  low 
Sweet  sentences  of  what  the  future  held, 
— A  waiting  treasure-trove  of  untold  joys, — 
To  fill  her  soul  and  his.     So  long,  indeed, 
Upon  the  unrestful  bosom  of  the  deep 
He  like  a  waif  had  wandered,  that  the  thought 
Of  home  and  hearth  and  her  he  loved, — all  his, — 
Of  tidy  curtains  drawn  to  half  conceal 
The  Paradise  within  from  him  who  stood 
Without,  perhaps  the  glow  and  hallowed  light 
Of  childish  faces  pressed  against  the  pane, 
Seemed  like  a  long-sought  haven  of  repose 
To  over-weary  hearts. 

Such  pictures  now 

He  drew,  while  she,  with  quickening  tumult  filled, 
Drank  in  his  words  and  dared  not  lift  her  eyes 
Lest,  lifted,  they  betrayed  more  light  of  love 
Than  heart  had  faith  to  utter.     Then  he  laughed 
And  said  :  "  It  is  not  long — to-night  I  go 
To  gather  store  will  ease  the  coming  hours 
Of  our  sweet  honeymoon  ;  but  I  shall  come 
To  thee  again  on  Thursday, — mark  the  time, — 
On  Thursday  ere  the  sun  begin  to  sink." 
And  full  of  happy  hopes  of  that  near  day, 
He  sang  in  undertones  an  old  love  song, 
Tender  and  quaint,  sea-savoured,  and  withal 
Melodious : 


Woman-o' -the- Watch.  27 

My  love,  my  love,  the  tide  is  flowing 

And  slipping  under  our  polished  keel  ; 
My  love,  my  love,  the  breeze  is  blowing, 
And  over  the  waves  the  red  sun  glowing 
Tips  the  spars  as  they  rock  and  reel. 

But  tide  may  flow, 

And  breeze  may  blow, 

Yet  love,  my  love  ! 

While  Heaven  's  above 

I  am  thine,  love,  I  am  thine  ! 

Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  the  wind  is  droning 

And  sighing  sadly  among  the  shrouds  ; 
Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  the  timbers  groaning 
Sound  i'  the  air  like  a  spirit  moaning 
Under  the  gray  of  the  angry  clouds. 

Let  timbers  groan, 

And  spirits  moan, 

But,  sweetheart,  sweet  ! 

Tho'  time  fly  fleet 

Thou  art  mine,  love,  thou  art  mine  ! 

And  drawing  closer  that  half  drooping  head 
Till  all  its  burnt  gold  saddened  into  brown 
Under  his  shoulder's  shadow,  Edward  led 
Their  steps  close  to  the  little  wharf,  and  then, 
Half-playful,  half  in  earnest,  drew  from  out 
His  rough  sea-jacket's  ample  inner  folds, 
A  curious  scarf  of  brilliant-colored  stuffs 
Inwoven  with  much  pain  of  cunning  hand 
Into  quaint  emblems,  meaningless  or  not, 


28  Woman-o -the-Watch. 

According  to  the  power  of  him  who  sought 

To  find  a  meaning.     All  the  colors,  bright 

As  painted  rainbows  on  a  screen,  quick  caught 

The  eye,  and  thus  had  Edward,  when  he  voyaged 

In  the  last  trading  trip,  seen  at  a  booth 

In  some  brisk  Indian  port  this  gewgaw  which 

He  bought  and  carried  home  to  please  a  whim 

For  brilliant  hues.     Now,  drawing  forth  the  scarf, 

He  held  it  to  the  girl  and  laughing  cried  : 

"  This  be  the  sign  love's  duty  first  shall  give 

Of  love's  own  sweet  remembrance  ;  fasten  thou 

This,  as  a  flag,  upon  some  bit  of  staff 

From  out  the  scattered  rubbish  of  the  beach, 

And  when,  heart-hungered,  I  shall  sail  near  home 

On  Thursday,  ere  the  sun  begin  to  sink, 

There,  first  of  all  land  signals  which  I  see, 

Shall  be  this  emblem  fretting  in  the  wind 

And  painting  all  its  length  against  the  sky  ; 

And  so  my  heart  shall  gather  firmer  strength 

To  stay  its  further  waiting,  and  the  sign 

Will  waft  assurance  over  leagues  of  air, 

Saying,  "  Sweetheart,  I  wait,  thy  Ethel  waits  ; 

Oh  lover,  husband,  come  !  "     And  then  he  turned 

Quickly  to  catch  the  blood  upon  her  cheek 

Which  that  last  word   had   brought,   for   well   he 

knew 

How  surely  it  would  bring  it,  and  so  leaned 
And    kissed    her.      And,    ere    either    knew,    they 

reached 

The  wharf.    There  Edward,  once  more  cautioning  : 
"  Forget  not  Thursday,  ere  the  sun  go  down." 


Woman-o -t he-Watch.  29 

And  whispering  that  whereof  no  man  may  know, 
Save  that  it  drew  a  flood  of  tender  light 
Across  the  violet  shadows  of  her  eyes, 
Turned  from  her  and  was  gone,  and  Ethel  stood 
Still  as  a  statue,  looking  out  to  sea, 
The  scarf  of  inwrought  emblems  in  her  hand. 
And  on  her  face  emblems  yet  deeper  wrought, 
Till  clear-cut  cordage  barred  across  the  sun, 
And  he  had  sailed  into  the  West. 

II. 

Time  moves 

With  fateful  fingers  on  the  dial,  and  oft 
Resteps  in  his  old  footprints  ;  so  I  came 
To  that  same  stretch  of  beach  that  bore  away 
Monotonously  northward.     Now  there  stood 
A  thriving,  bustling  town,  compactly  built 
And  cut  with  streets  rectangular,  and  neat 
As  woodbine  tacked  against  a  cottage  wall, 
Whereon  the  eye  rests,  with  a  wish  the  while 
To  see  it  tangled  and  half  lost  in  grass. 
The  path  that  forty  years  before  had  led 
With  indirect  directness  to  the  mill 
Was  blotted  out  and  covered  o'er  with  flag, 
And  at  the  place  where  once  the  wharf  had  been 
Arose  a  ponderous  pier,  its  space  o'erpacked 
With  merchandise  piled  in  long  tiers  and  placed 
In  orderly  confusion.     Out  beyond, 
A  goodly  show  of  shipping,  taut  and  trim, 
Spoke  of  the  commerce  of  the  little  port, 


3O  Wonmn-o-thc-  Watch'. 

And  led  the  eye  to  wander,  as  did  mine, 

Seeking  the  farther  limits  of  the  view 

Half  hid  in  haze.     But  soon,  as  though  a  spell, 

Wielded  by  some  resistless  outer  force, 

Had  fallen  upon  me,  motionless  I  gazed 

Upon  a  single  object,  wan  and  weird 

As  troubled  dreams  at  dawn.     There,  in  relief, 

Sharp  drawn  against  the  background  of  the  sky, 

I  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman,  tall, 

But  bent  as  with  the  weight  of  added  years, 

Stand  peering  out  o'er  misty  miles  of  sea, 

As  though  between  the  dull  red  vapor  globe 

Which  marked  the  sun's  position  and  herself 

She  looked  to  see  some  vision  of  a  god 

Float  landward  with  the  tide.     Her  left  hand  held 

A  slender  rod,  from  whose  half-splintered  top 

Fluttered  a  rag,  flag-fashion,  flapping  hard 

To  rush  away  upon  the  gusty  wind, 

While  with  the  right  she  shaded  well  her  brow, 

Nor  seemed  to  know  of  aught  without  that  space 

Of  sea  and  sky  whereon  her  gaze  was  set. 

And  as  I  paused,  regarding  closer  yet 

That  strange,  quaint  figure,  close  to  where  I  stood 

There  passed  a  waterman,  with  slouching  gait, 

Who  whistled  a  quick-changing  sailor  tune, 

Full  of  queer  grace-notes  and  untuneful  trills, 

That  broke  the  current  of  my  thought,  and  him 

I  beckoned,  and,  as  being  one'  who  knew 

The  local  gossip  of  the  port,  I  begged 

That  I  might  learn  who  the  wan  woman  was 

That  stood  so  still  facing  the  wind.     And  he, 


Woman-o-t  he-Watch.  31 

Half  doubting  if  the  question  asked  were  asked 
In  jest  or  earnest,  raised  his  brows  and  smiled 
That  it  were  asked  at  all. 

"I  thought,"  he  said, 

"  That  all  who  ever  came  here  knew  the  tale 
Of  Woman-o -the-  Watch  !     Why  there  she  stands 
Where  she  has  stood  once  every  week  for  more 
Than  forty  years.     I  mind  me  of  the  times 
When  I,  a  lisping  child  playing  among 
The  anchors  and  the  nets,  saw  that  same  hand 
Uphold  that  same  split  flag-staff,  and  those  eyes 
Look  out  to  sea  with  that  same  longing  look. 
Master,  I  think  I  be  full  come  to  years 
Of  manhood,  and  that  woman  stood  as  now 
Ere  I  was  born." 

And  here  he  paused,  with  arm 
Outstretched,    pointing    his    words    with  gesture. 

Then 

Reflectively,  as  one  who  conjured  up 
Remembrances  of  childhood,  he  went  on  : 
"  I  oft  have  heard  my  father  tell  the  tale 
How  that  old  Ethel  (she  who  stands  there  now) 
Once  on  a  time  was  deemed  as  fair  a  lass 
As  sailor's  heart  could  pine  for,  and  that  when 
One  loved  her  and  had  won  her  love  as  well, 
And  they  were  to  be  wed,  he  that  she  loved 
Had  left  her  to  be  gone  but  half  a  week, 
For  he  was,  like  the  rest,  a  fisherman, 
And  thought  to  swell  his  store  by  one  more  trial 
Against  their  coming  marriage.     But  or  e'er 
Two  days  had  marked  his  going  there  arose 


32  Woman-o -the-Watch. 

A  tempest  such  as  those  whose  frosted  heads 
First  saw  the  sunlight  on  this  coast  had  ne'er 
Before  beheld — a  tempest  wild  as  war 
And  pitiless  as  death. 

"  Full  well  all  knew 

No  fishing  boat  could  live  in  such  a  sea, 
And  those  whose  fathers,  husbands,  brothers,  sons, 
Were  out,  like  stricken  deer,  rushed  up  and  down, 
Some  raving,  others  praying,  and  all  wild  ; 
The  women  wrung  their  hands  and  wept,  save  one 
(This  one  before  us),  who  stood  cold  and  white, 
And  never  spake  a  word.     The  long  night  through 
She  seemed  like  some  stone  sculpture  of  despair 
Or  terror  turned  to  ice.     And  when  the  day 
Broke  she  was  left  like  some  dismantled  barque, 
Her  eye  despoiled  of  lustre,  and  across 
Her  sweet  brow  written  nothingness.     Her  wits 
Had  gone  out  in  the  darkness  of  that  night, 
And  naught  was  left  but  love. 

"  Thus  sore  bereft, 
She,  as  it  were,  became  a  little  child, 
Pleased  with  a  plaything,  frightened  by  a  frown  ; 
And  even  as  a  little  child  will  find 
In  the  same  toy  which  yesterday  beguiled, 
Another  toy  quite  fresh  and  new  to-day, 
To  tire  of  now  and  want  again  to-morrow  ; 
So  Ethel,  with  all  ideas  lost  save  one, 
Because  her  lover,  ere  he  went  away, 
Had  bade  her  look  on  Thursday  for  his  sail, 
Has  kept  her  curious  calendar  encased 
Within  her  heart  of  heart,  forgetful  as 


Woman-o-the-  Watch.  3  3 

Each  Thursday's  sun  goes  down  that  Thursday's  sun 

Has  risen.     Thus  each  week  for  forty  years, 

Like  a  wan  worshipper  at  a  sacred  shrine, 

She  comes  on  Thursday  ere  the  sun  goes  down, 

Unfurling  her  poor  pennon  to  the  breeze 

Upon  the  pier.     She  never  fails,  and  so 

The  sailors  call  her  Woman-d1 -the-  Watch. 

That,  master,  is  her  story." 

As  the  man 

Finished,  we  came  quite  close  to  where  she  stood 
(For  we  had  walked  the  while  he  told  the  tale), 
And  I  regarded  well  those  far-off  eyes, 
Seeking  their  solemn  secret.     O'er  her  face 
There   glowed   a   strange   flush,   centering   in  the 

cheeks, 

Which  told  of  lying  hope, — hope  long  deferred 
And  feeding  on  itself.     Her  hair,  outblown, 
Was  nearly  white,  and  all  her  figure  seemed 
But  an  embodied  dream.     Then,  as  the  sea 
Brake  far  adown  the  shore, — a  harmony 
Of  fast  incoming  tides, — I  heard  her  sing, 
In  tones  so  weakened  with  o'er-freighted  days 
The  melody  seemed  drowned  in  half-spent  tears  : 

"  My  love,  my  love,  the  tide  is  flowing 

And  slipping  under  our  polished  keel ; 
My  love,  my  love,  the  breeze  is  blowing, 
And  over  the  waves  the  red  sun  glowing 
Tips  the  spars  as  they  rock  and  reel. 
But  tide  may  flow, 
And  breeze  may  blow, 


34  Woman-o -the-  WatcJi. 

Yet  love,  my  love  ! 

While  Heaven  's  above 

I  am  thine,  love,  I  am  thine  !  " 

And  I,  who  watched  her  closely,  saw  the  light — 
The  strange  perennial  light  of  those  sad  eyes — 
Flame  dully,  as  a  dying  ember  flames, 
And  half  athwart  her  visage  stole  a  smile 
More  pitiful  than  weeping,  and  anon 
The  eager  tension  of  the  muscles  drew 
The  anxious  look  into  her  face  again, 
And  she  was  once  more  peering  out  to  sea 
Silent  as  stone.     But  still  the  restless  deep 
In  minor  chords  its  requiem  rolled  abroad, 
And  once  again  she  sang  : 

"  Sweet-heart,  sweet-heart, — " 

There  the  voice  broke  and  faltered  for  a  space, 
As  a  dim  memory  of  the  shipwrecked  mind 
Stung  the  hurt  heart  to  anguish,  but  ere  long 
She  seemed  upborne  by  some  supernal  force 
That  stirred  the  slumbering  fires  of  her  soul 
And  gave  her  youth  and  beauty.     Once  again 
Erect  she  stood,  her  eye  far-flashing  with 
The  light  of  old,  her  form,  remoulded,  drawn 
In  gracefuller  curves  against  the  leaden  sky. 
The  wind,  which  came  in  wet  gusts  from  the  sea, 
Tore  at  her  skirts  and  wrappings,  and  again, 
Tugging  with  baffled  malice  at  the  flag, — 
The   poor,  frayed   rag  whose   emblems,    once   in- 
wrought, 


Woman-o -the-  Watcli.  35 

Had  wept  themselves  to  whiteness  in  the  storms 
Of  forty  years, — howled  yet  intent  to  drown 
All  voices  save  its  own.     Yet  still  her  tones 
Upswelled,  defiant  with  their  new-found  strength  ; 
Her  blood  coursed  quickly  and  the  breath  of  youth 
Came  to  her  lips,  and  so  the  melody 
Bore  forth  the  words  of  that  old,  tender  song, 
Like  the  triumphant  cry  of  him  who  fights 
And  conquers  all : 

"  Sweet-heart,  sweet-heart,  the  wind  is  droning 

And  sighing  sadly  among  the  shrouds  : 
Sweet-heart,  sweet-heart,  the  timbers  groaning 
Sound  i'  the  air  like  a  spirit  moaning 
Under  the  gray  of  the  angry  clouds. 

Let  timbers  groan, 

And  spirits  moan, 

But,  sweet-heart,  sweet ! 

Tho'  time  fly  fleet 

Thou  art  mine,  love,  thou  art  mine  !  " 

The  strain  rose  glorified  as  though  it  held 
A  love  outlasting  death,  and  backward  hurled 
Defiance  to  the  moth  and  rust  of  time  ! 
Rose  as  that  wondrous  cry,  triumphant,  yet 
So  tender,  which  of  old  broke  on  the  ears 
Of  Thracian  women  as  they  looked  upon 
The  trunkless  head  of  Orpheus,  rushing  on 
Adown  the  tide  of  Hebrus, — that  wild  cry  : 
"  Eurydice,  Eurydice,  my  own  ! " 
Then,  as  she  finished,  all  her  new-found  fire 
Faded  and  sank  as  sank  the  setting  sun  ; 


36  Woman-o'-the-  Watch. 

And  I  turned  sadly.     And  the  woman  stood 
There  in  the  deep'ning  twilight. 

Now  the  wind 

Rose  to  a  gale,  and  ere,  with  hasten'd  steps, 
I  reached  the  nearer  edges  of  the  town, 
Swirled  the  dry  sand  in  circles,  and  anon 
Broke  'round  the  angles  into  wails  of  woe  ; 
Yet  once — but  for  a  moment — bore  along, 
As  it  had  been  the  fragment  of  a  song, 
Sung  in  the  rhythm  of  another  sphere, 
A  dying  cadence,  sad  as  falling  leaves  : 

"  Sweet-heart,  sweet-heart, — " 

And  then  the  mad  wind  veered, 
And  I  heard  nothing  save  its  own  wild  chords 
And  the  low  sobs  of  the  eternal  sea. 


MAGDALENE. 
I. 

HPHERE  is  a  headland  that  o'erlooks  the  West 

And  on  its  forehead  at  each  set  of  sun 
Takes  the  warm  farewell  kisses  of  the  day. 
A  windmill,  too,  with  empty  arms  that  plead 
In  desolation,  widowed  of  the  wind  ; 
And  long  unused  stones,  grown  granulous, 
As  though  the  petulance  of  age  and  dearth 
Cankered  their  disposition. 

Half  adown 

The  sloping  hillside,  walled  from  careless  feet 
And  all  the  mild  mutations  of  the  field, 
Stands  in  its  sanctity  a  little  plot 
Set  off  forever  to  the  silent  dead, — 
The  beautiful,  wise  dead, — and  here  in  peace 
Sleep  generations  dreaming  of  the  sun, — 
The  footsore  travellers  of  the  island  town 
Who  rest  and  wait  the  morrow. 

Faring  once 

Across  the  headland,  down  the  hillside,  I 
Came  to  this  warm  God's  acre,  and  drew  near, 
Reading,  as  one  who  cons  remembered  lore, 
The  brief  memorials  cut  in  cumbering  stone, 
37 


38  Magdalene. 

The  names  of  men  revered  and  women  loved, 

Of  children  broken  even  as  unoped  buds 

From  stems  that  never  healed  them  of  the  hurt, 

Of  kindred  honored  and  friends  gone  before. 

The  headstones  stood  like  sculptured  sentinels 

Anticipant  in  posture.     One  there  was, 

Partly  in  shadow  of  the  loving  grass, 

Which  drew  my  gaze  by  its  elusive  spell 

And  struck  me  into  wonder.     Over  half 

The  legend-bearing  stone  the  moss  had  grown, 

Weaving  a  green,  impenetrable  veil, 

And  lichen,  closer  clinging  than  doth  cling 

Love's  lips  to  lips  that  falter  a  farewell, 

Covered  it  deeper  into  mystery. 

So  stood  the  tablet,  bearing  to  the  light 

One  half  a  history,  while  the  shrouding  bloom 

Of  reticent  nature  blotted  out  the  rest. 

I  read  a  name,  Honoria.     To  the  right 

A  fair  sunlit  inscription.     To  the  left 

Naught  but  the  masking  greenery. 

II. 

So  I  came 

And  knelt  before  the  cryptic  stone,  and  bent 
The  sunburnt  grasses  back,  and  read  the  clear 
Uncovered  story  of  the  sleeper  : 

"  Here 

Lies  one  whose  hands  were  wrought  to  sacrifice  ; 
She  visited  the  poor  ;  she  served  the  sick  ; 
She  did  the  Christ's  work  in  a  weary  world." 


Magdalene.  39 

Then  I,  with  heart  that  knew  the  weight  of  te?rs 
And  ever  a  haunting  sense  of  life's  strange  coil, 
With  mine  own  soul  communed  :  "  In  very  truth 
This  woman  was  as  one  elect  of  God." 
And  yet  the  moss-grown  riddle  was  unread  ; 
What  message  'neath  that  mantle  should  I  find  ? 
W'herefore  this  mutilated  epitaph, 
This  tribute  marred  of  half  its  meaning,  blurred 
To  imperfection  by  the  touch  of  Time  ? 

I  stooped  and  painfully  sought  how  to  force 
The  moss  and  lichen  from  their  stony  soil  ; 
I  c'ave  the  uprooted  tendrils,  piece  by  piece, 
And  tore  the  green  delights  whose  cool  caress 
Lay  like  a  storied  palimpsest.     Yet  still 
Those  firm  fond  fingers  of  a  dryad  maid 
Clung  to  the  stone  as  love  to  life,  and  I 
Won  with  hard  toil  a  letter,  then  a  word, 
Wringing  from  weeping  Nature  what  she  held 
In  sacred  trust  of  secrecy,  and  so 
Filching  a  sentence  from  her  shielding  hand 
In  characters  tear-stained  to  darker  hue, — 
The  record  of  a  maimed  life  : 

"  She  loved 

Nor  well  nor  wisely,  and  fell  off  apace, 
And  lived,  alas  !  unfaithful  to  her  vows." 

III. 

Over  the  headland  grieved  the  cadenced  wind, 
And  fell  among  the  grasses,  and  died  off ; 
A  little  ghost  of  perfume  from  a  rose 


4O  Magdalene. 

That  nestled  to  the  shelter  of  the  mounds, 
Touched  me  like  spiritual  fingers. 

May  not,  then, 

The  sense  of  human  justice  be  appeased, 
That  thus  it  graves  a  frailty  into  stone  ? 
Honoria,  that  hast  ministered  to  need 
And  heard  the  low  voice  of  the  Nazarene, 
Why  has  thy  brother  blazoned  here  thy  sin  ? 
For  this  thy  tomb  thy  noble  deeds  alone 
Were  fitting  record.     Nature's  mercy  knows 
More  than  man's  rigor  dreams  of,  and  has  woven 
Her  careful  web  o'er  his  impeachment  ;  ay, 
Even  in  thy  fall,  Honoria,  thou  hast  found 
The  kiss  of  God  upon  thy  ruined  brow. 

I  climbed  the  hillside  where  the  windmill  stands 
With  pleading  arms  ;  no  sails,  lateen  and  lank, 
Shall  ever  again  entice  the  breeze  to  sing 
Light-hearted  at  its  work  ;  and  yet  I  thought 
There  came  a  whispered  promise  on  the  air 
That  loitered  mid  the  field  flowers,  voluble  : 
"  Much  is  forgiven,  for  she  loved  much." 

And  all  the  warm  gold  of  the  setting  sun 
Hallowed  the  headland  that  o'erlooks  the  West. 
NANTUCKET. 


D 


THE  WOOD  ROBIN. 

|EEP  in  the  hooded  aisles, 
Green-gloomed  recesses, 
Where  solitude  beguiles 
My  mobled  grief  to  smiles, 

And  half  expresses 

Dreams  of  song-music  mystically  sung  ; 
As  one  who  bows  to  share 
The  benison  of  prayer, 
My  soul  confesses 

Madness  in  melody  like  fragrance  flung 
Fair  over  bloomy  miles. 

What  art  thou  that  canst  bring 

Such  sweet  nepenthe, 
That  I,  who  hear  thee  sing, 
Elated,  seem  to  wing 

To  Him  who  sent  thee, 
Far  thro'  the  luminate  and  spacious  sky  ? 
How  from  thy  dulcet  throat 
Distillest  thou  the  note 
Delight  hath  lent  thee 
To  ravish  hearts  till  lips  forget  to  sigh, 
Lost  in  thy  carolling  ? 
41 


42  The  Wood  Robin. 

From  collied  depths  of  trees, 

In  rhythmic  motion, 
Thy  quavering  gospel  frees 
Lays  liquid  as  the  seas 

Sing  to  the  ocean — 
Or  leaves  list  in  the  whisper  of  the  rain. 

Messiah  of  the  sky  ! 

Incarnate  Rhapsody  ! 

In  thy  devotion, 

Like  Love's  breath  breathed  across  the  lips  of  Pain, 
Song  shudders  down  the  breeze. 

Brother  of  Philomel, 

Impassioned  singer, 
In  thy  full-throated  swell 
Such  rest  and  rapture  dwell 

That  joy,  Joy-bringer, 
Throbs  thro'  the  threnody  of  weary  years. 
A-tremble  down  the  green 
Of  married  dusk  and  sheen 
Thy  wood-notes  linger 
In  cadences  whose  laughter  breaks  to  tears, 
Forth  faltering  "  Farewell." 


SERVUS  SERVORUM  DEI. 
(FROM  A  PICTURE.) 

A    SCENT  of  olive  faltered  in  the  air, 

And  Fra  Anselmo,  with  his  well-fed  lip 
Drawn  up  in  contemplation,  felt  his  brow 
And  pondered  o'er  his  cards  ;  his  brother  there 
Had  thrown  an  ace,  and  smiling  even  now 
As  though  he  held  the  game,  placed  hand  on  hip 
And  half  winked  at  Anselmo. 

These  two  sat 

Within  the  monastery  garden,  snug 
And  comfortable,  with  a  flask  of  wine 
And  fruit  upon  a  salver  at  their  hand, — 
Fra  Bartolomeo,  lean  and  featured  fine, 
And  Fra  Anselmo,  sensuously  fat, 
While  on  the  breeze,  as  from  a  distant  land, 
A  dreamful  voice  of  bells  hung  rapturously 
And  broke  to  splintered  music  'mid  the  boughs 
That  bended  South  and  seemed  intent  to  hug 
The  sun-soaked  coping  of  the  garden  wall. 
"  Brother,  I  played  an  ace."     The  holy  vows 
Of  Bartolomeo  had  not  hurt  his  love 
Of  winning  hands  at  cards.     "  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  " 
43 


44  Servus  Servorum  Dei. 

Anselmo  laughed,  "  I'll  cover  it  with  this, 
The  diamond  is  the  trump,  I  think,  you  said." 

And  ere  he  ceased  to  speak,  a  haggard  man 
Peered  through  the  fretted  gate, — a  man  above 
Whose  brow  were  lines  of  toil,  and  whose  bent  back, 
Grown  callous  by  long  journeyings,  seemed  wed 
To  the  hard  angles  of  his  cumbrous  pack. 
A  child  was  with  him  whose  bewildered  eyes 
Held  that  within  them  which  in  time  should  fan 
A  man's  heart  into  flame,  but  now  there  dwelt 
Naught  there  but  sadness  and  the  light  to  seize 
The  rainbows  hid  in  tears.     These  two  had  felt 
Hard  want  together,  and  their  postures  plead 
More  eloquently  than  all  spoken  words. 
Then  from  his  pack  the  wayworn  peddler  drew 
Some  crucifixes  carved  in  olive  wood 
And  strung  with  chains  of  cunning  handiwork, 
And  holding  out  his  wares,  in  reverence  stood 
And   begged   the   monks   to   purchase  :    "  May   it 

please, 

I  have  sold  naught  to-day."     Anselmo  threw 
An  angry  glance,  and  with  impatient  jerk 
Of  his  shaved  head,  ordered  the  man  away, 
The  while  the  child  looked  wonderingly  and  wept 
To  see  the  sacred  emblems  sadly  placed 
Again  within  the  pack  :  "  Naught,  naught  to-day," 
She  murmured,  and  they  passed  adown  the  road. — 

"  I  threw  an  ace,"  Fra  Bartolomeo  said. — 
The  echoes  of  receding  footsteps  chased 


Scrvus  Scrvorum  Dei.  45 

Each  other  into  distance, — steps  that  strode 

And  steps  that  pattered, — man  and  child  who  kept 

Together  on  their  weary  way.     And  so 

The  image  of  the  dying  Christ  passed,  too, 

And  in  the  dusty  highway  disappeared. 

Then  mid  the  whispering  leaves  a  note  of  woe 

Seemed  mingled  with  the  chimes,  and  ever  through 

The  music  of  the  vespers  wove  a  sigh. 

"  I  threw  an  ace,"  Fra  Bartolomeo  said  ; 

And  Fra  Anselmo  answered  :  "  Yes,  and  I 

Have  thrown  a  diamond,  't  is  the  trump  that  wins 

(Whether  the  cards  be  spotted  black  or  red), 

Most  of  the  games  played  in  this  world  of  sins." 

And  once  again  a  sob  was  in  the  bells  : 
Fra  Bartolomeo  sipped  his  wine  and  smiled. 
The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  East  grew  wan 
As  one  whose  pallor  hasting  death  foretells. 
Anselmo  dealt  his  cards. — The  sad-eyed  child, — 
The  bended  man, — the  broken  Christ — were  gone. 


THE  SEA. 

T  LLIMITABLE  Brahman  of  the  Earth  ! 

Great  Self  to  which  the  World-Soul  gravitates  ! 
Thou  dost  contain  all  essences,  enfold 
All  secrets  in  the  hollows  of  thy  heart 
Where  bide  unending  love, — preventing  law. 
Teach  me  but  half  the  knowledge  hid  in  thee, 
But  half  the  peace  within  thy  silent  cells, 
And  I  shall  know  my  godhead,  as  I  know 
Here  for  a  little  while  my  sad  humanity. 


46 


AN  ANSWER. 

T    QUESTIONED:   Why  is  evil  on  the  Earth? 

A  sage  for  answer  struck  a  chord,  and  lo  ! 
I  found  the  harmony  of  little  worth 

To  teach  my  soul  the  truth  it  longed  to  know. 


He  struck  again  ;  a  saddened  music,  rife 
With  wisdom,  in  my  ear  an  answer  poured  : 

Sin  is  the  jarring  semitone  of  life, — 
The  needed  minor  in  a  perfect  chord. 


ARS  LOQUITUR. 

F  AM  the  means  ;  they  do  degrade  me  most 
Who  make  of  me  the  end  of  life's  desire  ; 
I  do  interpret  Beauty,  but  am  not 
That  Beauty's  self ;  I  ever  bend  to  hear 
Divine  Imagination's  high  commands, 
Obeying  that  which  is  immutable. 
They  serve  me  best  whose  gaze  transcends  my  law, 
And  know  me  least  who  wear  me  as  a  gyve. 
I  am  the  Living  God  of  little  men, — 
The  tool  of  great  men  I. 


48 


WINTER  RAIN. 

T    IKE  driven  smoke  the  rain  among  the  trees 

Slants  silently  to  find  the  sodden  grass, 
There  is  a  living  shudder  in  the  breeze 

And  every  shrub  an  icy  vesture  has  ; 

No  shape  of  loveliness  but,  ere  it  pass, 
Doth  turn  and  thrill  me  with  immortal  eyes  ; 

No  voice  but  stills  its  song  to  sigh  "  Alas  !  " 
No  cloud  but  blots  the  blue  of  naked  skies, 
While  I  stand  mute  and  mourn  a  vanished  Paradise 

Summer,  that  once  within  thy  scented  lap 
Pillowed  my  head,  as  on  a  daisied  hill 

We  sat  together,  thou  and  I,  mayhap 

Too  much  enamoured  of  each  other's  will, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me,  desolate  and  chill, 

To  fashion  ghosts  upon  the  viewless  air  ? 

Why  should  more  favored  suitors  have  their  fill 

Of  joy  and  sunlight,  while  my  bitter  fare 

Brings  hunger  to  my  soul  and  to  my  heart  despair? 

Is  it  that  flesh  grows  gross  in  tasting  joy, — 
That  Pain's  sword  gives  the  accolade  divine  ? 

Is  it  that  sorrow  mingles  its  alloy 

To  touch  men's  gilded  lives  to  issues  fine  ? 
Ah  !  that  the  seeker  for  life's  glorious  wine 
4  49 


50  Winter  Rain. 

Must  rend  each  pulsing  heart  from  which  it  flows  ; 

Ah  !  that  the  working  out  of  love's  design 
Should  crush  the  perfume  from  each  velvet  rose, 
And    rudely   wake    the    soul  from   Summer's    soft 
repose. 

Yet  hark  !  the  liquid  whisper  of  the  rain 

Is  riven  by  a  song  that  high  and  higher 
Soars  and  fades  faintly  till  the  rare  refrain 

Seems  of  its  own  soft  rapture  to  expire. 

Is  it  pale  Winter  singing  to  the  lyre 
Of  barren  branches  and  ungarnered  sheaves  ? 

Is  it  the  hymning  of  a  vernal  choir, — 
The  immortal  spirits  of  the  unborn  leaves  ? 
I  know  not,  yet  my  inner  sense  the  song  receives. 


PH^DRA  (Loquitur}. 

T   T  NLOOSR  the  triple  serpents  at  my  throat 

And  let  me  bare  my  bosom  to  the  night ; 
Then  leave  me,  ye  whose  blood  is  held  in  leash 
To  do  a  matron's  bidding,  ye  unstained 
Troezinian  women,  with  white  horror  writ 
Stark  in  your  bended  brows  ! 

T  may  not  tell 

What  question  seeks  an  answer  in  my  soul, 
Seeing  I  am  half  human  at  the  best, 
And  stung  by  loves  that  suck  the  breasts  of  Fear. 
Look,  where  the  sleeve  falls  open,  how  my  arm 
Borrows  new  pallor  from  the  impassioned  moon,- 
Herself  a  borrower,  bankrupt  e'en  as  1 
When  light  and  love  must  be  repaid  in  kind. 
May  I  not  follow,  with  unsandaled  feet, 
The  scented  wood-ways  leading  to  bowered  joy, 
And  sate  mine  eyes,  though  all  my  body  die 
Of  baulked  desire,  whereat  the  sad  gods  frown  ? 
I  seek  Hippolytus,  and  though  he  slay, 
Still  will  I  seek  him,  still  from  'venging  heaven 
Braving  the  bolts  ye  prate  of. 

Back,  I  pray  ; 

Give  me  a  little  air  upon  my  eyes, 
Upon  my  throbbing  brows  the  night's  caress  ; 
Go  ye,  and  win  your  lords  to  softer  ways  : 
For  me  Delight  is  married  to  Despair, 
And  I  woo  both  within  the  arms  of  Death. 
51 


AN  IONIAN  FRIEZE. 

T_T  ORSES  rampant  and  curbed,  compactly  close, 
With  polished  hooves  that  quiver  from  the 

earth, 
And  mane-enfringed  necks,  whose  rondure  shows 

In  silhouette  against  the  pale  sky's  girth. 
Beneath  chaste  marble,  jewelled  of  chrysolite, 

A  gracile  girl,  with  fillet-girdled  hair, 
Stands  half  revealed  through  folds  of  shimmering 
white, 

Her  carmine  lips  wed  to  a  silver  flute, 

As  though  their  budding  beauty  to  transmute 

To  music  dying  off  along  the  air. 
In  sage  processional  pass  bearded  priests, 

And  acolytes  with  pink  and  boyish  limbs, 

Chanting  to  all  the  gods  strange  bardic  hymns, 
Less  tuned  to  sacrifice  than  fit  for  feasts. 
And  over  all  the  antique  light,  the  old 

Divine  perfection,  the  lost  art  which  drapes 

In  fairest  majesty  heroic  shapes 
Enwrought  upon  a  field  of  beaten  gold. 


A  DREAMER. 

T_J  E  loved  the  Morning  with  her  lips  a-cold, 

He  drank  large  wisdom  at  Noon's  nippled 

breast, 
And,  like  a  later  Jason,  sought  his  gold 

Among  the  fleeces  of  the  winnowed  West. 
Through  days  divinely  blent  of  love  and  light, 

By  reedy  runnels  he  was  wont  to  sit, 
Till  broke  upon  his  sense-enraptured  sight 

The  Everlasting  Poet's  epic,  writ 
In  stars  upon  the  placid  forehead  of  the  Night. 

He  loved  to  feel  the  pulses  of  the  Spring, 

Thrilling  with  life  that  struggled  to  the  sun, — 
To  list  the  message  that  the  blossoms  bring 

And  count  the  roses  as  a  guerdon  won. 
Within  the  Summer's  deep  blood-tinctured  heart, 

To  squander  days  beneath  the  murmurous  trees. 
Till  through  his  dreams  the  cunning  hand  of  Art 

Inwrought  the  splendor  of  such  fantasies, 
That   Earth,    which    spake   of   God,   became    His 
counterpart. 

Fain  were  his  feet  to  follow  vagrant  ways 
When  resinous  odors  filled  the  eager  air, 

He  loved  to  wander  through  the  amber  haze, 
Across  the  meadows,  to  the  upland  where 

53 


54  --'/  Dreamer. 

Sat  Autumn  pensively  amid  her  sheaves, 
Marking  the  alchemy  which  all  too  soon 

Transmutes  to  gold  the  treasure  of  her  leaves, 
In  the  long  season's  mello\v  afternoon, 

And  touches  naked  boughs  wherethrough  the  sad 
wind  grieves. 

He  was  a  dreamer,  yet  he  loved  his  friends  ; 

He  gained  no  gold,  nor  ever  garnered  care  ; 
He  strove  not  to  attain  ambition's  ends, 

Content  that  other  men  should  do  and  dare. 
Perhaps  he  was  not  noble,  yet  no  fears 

Made  up  the  aftermath  of  his  emprise  ; 
For  swift  success  he  never  bartered  tears 

Wrung  from  the  fountains  of  another's  eyes, 
Nor  marred   the   melody  Love   sings   among   the 
Spheres. 


COMPENSATION. 

A    BOAT  went  out  with  the  ebbing  tide, 

A-throb  with  the  pulse  of  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  curtsied  low  to  the  rushy  shore, 
And  dimpled  the  waves    where    the    stream   grew 

wide, 

Then  rounded  the  light  on  the  lower  lea  ; 
And  the  boat  had  never  a  sail  nor  oar, 
Nor  rudder  to  temper  her  destiny, 
And  Hope  was  the  name  that  her  gunnel  bore, — 
But  she  came  not  back  to  me. 

A  ship  sailed  into  the  silent  West, 
The  dearest  pride  of  my  heart  was  she, 
And  fair  on  the  sunset's  face  of  gold 
Her  tapering  spars  stood  clear  confest  ; 
And  ah  !  't  was  as  sad  as  sad  could  be, 
For  the  days  went  by  and  I  grew  old, 
And  night  spread  over  the  slumbering  sea, 
But  my  ship  was  forgot  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 
Nor  ever  sailed  back  to  me. 

I  gave  a  song  to  the  listening  air, 

It  trembled  aloft  with  a  new  delight, 

And  bore,  in  the  voice  of  a  strange,  sweet  bird, 

A  measure  of  joy  that  was  half  despair  ; 

55 


56  Compensation. 

And  the  song  was  a  part  of  my  soul,  my  might, 
My  innermost  thought  and  tenderest  word, 
But  it  sank  to  a  moan  and  was  silenced  quite, 
Like  memoried  melodies  long  since  heard, — 
Lost  stars  in  a  starless  night. 

A  woman  fair  with  the  grace  that  clings 

To  moonlit  eyes  and  sun-kissed  head, 

Leaned  low  and  lightly  spake  to  me, 

Till  my  man's  heart  leaped  with  a  sense  of  wings  : 

"  Thy  hope  to  an  unknown  land  is  sped, 

Thy  pride  is  wrecked  in  a  soundless  sea, 

And  the  fragrant  flower  of  song  is  dead, — 

Lost  to  the  world  and  lost  to  thee, — 

But  love  is  left,"  she  said. 


AVE    AMERICA  ! 

AN    ODE. 
I. 

Land,  my  Mother  !     To  thy  feet  I  bring 
The  amplest  measure  of  a  faltering  song  ; 

Hope's  starlike  harbinger  !     Wherever  wrong 
Hath  wrought  the  work  of  her  imagining, 
Wherever  men  have  felt  the  gall  of  chains 
And  through  the  dark  have  whispered  Liberty, 

Or  women,  widowed  of  divinest  dowers, 
Have  smiled  between  their  sobs  to  dream  of  thee, 
There  hast  thou  given  the  solace  of  thy  plains, 

The  shelter  of  thy  battlemented  towers. 
Thy  hills  are  mine,  O  Land  made  doubly  dear 

By   hallowed    homes    and   yet    more    hallowed 

graves  ; 
Thy  coasts  whose  marge  perennially  doth  hear 

The  husky  murmurs  of  innumerous  waves  ; 
Thy  forests,  too,  with  shades  more  soft  than  sleep, 

And  sanctities  of  solitude  wherethrough 
Strange  beauty,  which  from  alien  eyes  doth  keep 

Her  fair  perfection,  steals  in  ever  new 
And  ever  growing  wonder.     Mine  thy  bowers, 

And  all  the  mellow  comfort  of  thy  fields 
57 


58  Arc  America  ! 

Nourished  with  sunlight  and  the  breath  of  flowers 
And  aftermath  perfumes  whose  parting  yields 

An  incense  fine  as  prayer.     Could  I  but  pass 
Long  days  in  silence  on  thy  sloping  meads, 

Amid  the  populous  rumors  of  the  grass, 

Unrest  had  grown  to  graciousness,  whereof  con- 
tentment breeds. 


II. 


And  yet,  dear  Land,  a  Nation's  vows 

Are  graven  on  thy  laurelled  brows  ; 

For  thou  wast  perfected  of  fire, 

Fair  fruitage  of  the  World's  desire, 

Thy  mother  Justice,  War  thy  sire. 

War  when  a  tyrant's  mailed  hand 

Sent  freedom  thrilling  through  the  land  ; 

War  when  again  oppression  sought 

To  dwarf  the  rights  which  blood  had  bought  ; 

And  War,  War,  War  when  Treason's  mouth 

Spat  poison  through  the  amber  South, 

And  thy  own  children  struck  the  blow 

Which,  aimed  aright,  had  laid  thee  low. 

Hark  to  the  bells  ! 
The  large  alarm  that  onward  speeds, 
Forerunner  of  undying  deeds, 
Outrung  from  spire  to  spire, 

To  touch  the  mild 
Peace-pipings  with  heroic  ire  ! 

How  the  call  swells  ! 

Strenuous,  wild, 


Ai'e  America  !  59 

Impatient  !     And  the  guns,  the  guns  ! 

From  Sumter  booms 

The  signal  to  thy  thousand  looms, — 
The  summons  to  thy  million  sons, 

Dear  Country,  to  put  off  the  ways 

And  works  of  honeyed  quietude  ; 

To  meet  the  rude 
Awakening  with  unquickened  breath  ; 

And  with  unflinching  gaze 
To  look  into  the  sodden  eyes  of  death. 
See  the  battalions  splendidly  sweeping 

Down  from  the  North  ! 

With  unwavering  lines,  coming  forth 

To  bring  sunlight  of  day 

To  the  marshes  where  Treason  is  stealthily  creeping, 
Black  in  a  habit  of  gray. 


III. 


But  ah  !  the  sons  who  at  their  mother's  feet 
Kissed  Death's  pale  lips  and  knew  their  joy  com- 
plete ! 

Ah  !  thou  supreme  civilian,  tender,  wise, 
With  fair  peace-offerings  in  thy  rugged  hands, 

And  such  divine  forgiveness  in  thy  eyes 
As  knows  no  counterpart  in  all  the  storied  lands  ! 

The  world's  vast  harmony  by  thy  devotion 
Is  made  complete  ;  and  through  its  concords  ring 

The  notes  of  thy  fair  life,  in  ordered  motion, 
Like  melody  from  some  earth-nurtured  spring, 

Or  streams  that  in  the  throbbing  heart  of  ocean 


60  Are  America  ! 

Flow  on  forever  and  forever  sing. 

From  thee  humanity  in  every  clime 
A  deeper  love  of  human  freedom  gains, 
While  rings  the  echo  of  the  falling  chains 

Struck  off  by  thee  and  made  by  thee  sublime. 
And  as  o'er  some  imperishable  bower 

The  gentle  hand  of  brotherhood  might  crave 
Love's  benediction  tenderly  to  shower, 

So  were  I  fain,  strong  leader  of  the  brave, 
To  fling  the  fragrance  of  this  fading  flower, 

Across  the  fadeless  verdure  of  thy  grave. 


IV. 


Rare  is  the  recompense  of  mighty  deeds, 
And  high  the  heritage  of  lofty  souls; 

And  tho'  the  memory  of  the  past  recedes 

Into  the  mist  of  unremembering  years,— 
Tho'  Time's  wheel  rolls 

Swift  on  its  axle,  scorning  human  tears 

And  men's  sad  laughter, — yet  the  spirit  lives 

Which  makes  immortal  all  great  labor  done, 
All  noble  thought  translated  into  act, 

And  ever  gives, 

Finer  than  fable,  the  undying  fact 

Which  lies  behind  each  radiant  victory  won. 
And  thou,  my  Mother,  with  eternal  youth 
Set  like  a  pearl  above  thy  unruffled  brows, 

Art  grown  more  fair  that  thou  awhile  didst  feel 

The  bite  of  steel, 


A  ve  A  merica  !  6 1 

And  in  the  darkest  of  thy  days  wore  truth, 
The  chiefest  jewel  in  thy  diadem. 

No  further  need  thy  fervor  to  arouse, 
For  thou  art  victress  and  the  unpriced  gem 

Of  liberty  is  thine, 

And  all  the  graces  that  in  perfect-statured  wo- 
manhood combine. 
I  see  thee  now,  resplendent,  prodigal, 

With  royal  opulence  of  field  and  mine 
Poured  in  thy  broad  lap  ;  with  thy  granaries  all 

Bursting  to  hold  the  gifts  of  generous  earth  ; 

I  mark  thy  mellow  fruitage,  thy  red  wine, 
Sun-tinctured  in  a  million  purple  hearts  ; 

The  song  of  comfort  that  doth  mock  at  dearth  ; 
I  hear  the  hum  which  from  unnumbered  marts 
Bruits  of  thy  commerce  circling  land  and  sea, — 
A  nation's  life-blood  pulsing  endlessly  ; 

I  hear  the  clack  of  laboring  looms,  and  long 

Listen  elated  to  the  shuttle's  song  ; 
Before  the  crescent  sickles  of  the  free 

A  continent's  fair  harvest  bows,  and  shrill, 
Unceasing  invocations  speed  the  flight 
Of  tireless  messengers,  to  carry  art 
To  regions  that  but  late  have  seen  the  light, 

Through  nerves  which  thrill 
To  bear  the  deep  pulsations  of  a  heart 

Which  falters  not,  companioned   with  a  never- 
faltering  will. 

Behold  !  great  Land,  thy  majesty,  and  raise 
In  deep-voiced  ecstasy  a  song  of  praise. 


62  Avc  America  ! 

V. 

What    of    the    future,    O    Land    of    the    World's 

aspiration  ? 
Land  of  large  symmetries  wrought  on  the  prairies' 

broad  faces, 

Land  ever  lulled  by  the  somnolent  kiss  of  the  ocean, 
Ever    enthralled  with   the  azure-eyed  lakes,   con- 
summation 
And  pride  of  a  continent,  deep  in  whose  bosom 

no  traces 
Of    tyranny    ever    have    marred  a  glad    nation's 

devotion, — 

What  may  anointed  eyes  see 
Of  the  future  for  thee  ? 
Deep  are  the  signs  and  portents,  wide  in  the  skies 

are  they  glowing  ; 
Onward  and  upward  eternally,  fleet  as  thy  rivers 

are  flowing, 
Speeds  thy  divinely  appointed  destiny,  ever  and 

ever 
Seer  and  Prophet  and  Bard,  glad  in  their  calling, 

bestowing 
Prophecy,   promise,  and    song,   pledge   that    no 

power  shall  sever 
Thee  from  thy  glory,  dear  Land  ;  us  from  thy  love, 

gentle  Mother ; 
Thee  from  the  fervor  of  hearts  welded  as  brother 

to  brother ; 

Us  from  thy  beauty  and  truth  ;  thee  and  thy  sons 
from  each  other. 


Ave  America  !  63 

All  hail  to  thee,  Beautiful  One  !  deep  reverenced, 

love  of  a  nation  ! 
To  thee  be  the  hand  horizontal  uplifted,  in  grave 

salutation  ; 
In    thee    are   the   potencies    wrapped,  new    lights 

springing  forth  of  thy  being 
As  the  stars  from  the  womb  of  the  night.     Press 

on,  in  the  vision  all-seeing, 
Through  darkness  and  dread  and  despair,  to  the 

dawn  and  the  light  and  the  glory, 
Thy  'scutcheon  the  worth  of  mankind,  thy  annals 

humanity's  story. 


SONNETS. 


UNCROWNED. 

T    OVE  looked  upon  me  with  immortal  eyes, 

And  I  became  a  god  with  heart  of  flame  ; 
Faith,  with  a  woman's  lips,  pronounced  my  name 

Full  tenderly,  entreating,  loverwise. 
Each  spake  unto  me  in  the  other's  guise  ; 

Love  said  :  Believe.     Unfaith  is  true  love's  shame. 
And  like  a  benison  Faith's  whisper  came  : 

Love  is  the  deepest  of  my  mysteries. 

Then  I  who  lacked  fine  fibre  to  perceive 
Life's  high  beatitudes,  trailed  in  the  dust 

The  chaplet  Heaven  had  placed  upon  my  head  ; 
Alas  !  in  loving  I  could  not  believe  ; 

I  dallied  with  the  courtesan  Distrust ; 

I  questioned  !     Faith  and  Love  together  fled. 


67 


KARMA. 

T3IRTH  and  desire  and  death  and  birth  again. 

The  purgatory  of  a  deathless  soul, 
Elusive  bubbles  which  forever  roll 

Down  restless  rivers  to  the  moaning  main  ; 

The  seasons  open  and  the  seasons  wane, 
Eternal  bells  for  dead  millenniums  toll, 
Karma  endures,  and  lays  its  weight  of  dole 

Upon  the  tablets  of  the  aching  brain. 

The  deeds  of  men  are  eddies  in  the  wave, 

Forever  forming  fainter,  wider  rings  ; 
Alas  !  there  is  no  potency  to  save, 

Nor  for  the  pain  of  life  a  healing  balm. 

Oh,  for  the  Buddha's  holy  chastenings  ! 

The  blast  Nirvana !     The  unending  calm  ! 


68 


EARTH   AND    NIGHT. 
(PARAPHRASE  OF  WALT  WHITMAN.) 

f  WALK  beneath  the  tender,  growing  night, 

Where  darkness  makes  a  mystery  of  the  sea, 
Chanting  beatitudes,  as  one  made  free 
And  soaring  skyward  in  ecstatic  flight. 
Upon  my  lips  the  south  wind  breathes  delight, 
And  thro'  the  slumbering  trees  pours  melody  ; 
Press  close,  bare-bosomed  joy,  for  I  am  he 
With  eyes  anointed  to  diviner  sight. 

Still,  nodding  Night !  that  for  my  solace  keepest 
A  beauty  which  no  touch  of  tempest  mars  ; 
Sad  Earth  !  that  for  departed  sunset  weepest, 
I  read  a  stern  evangel  in  thy  scars. 
I  am  the  lover  in  whose  heart  thou  sleepest, 
O  Night !  that  hast  the  largess  of  the  stars. 


SIC  ITUR  AD  ASTRA. 

"\  \  TYLO  builds  on  Reason  builds  upon  the  sand 
A  fabric  mortal  as  the  human  brain, 

A  fetich-temple  crumbling  'neath  the  strain 
Of  Love's  first  touch,  and  razed  at  her  demand. 
Mind  is  a  function,  by  Omniscience  planned, 

Dull  as  digestion,  earthly-bred  as  pain  ; 

Thought's  final  triumph  is  to  prove  thought  vain, 
And  logic's  life  is  quenched  by  logic's  hand. 

The  Spirit's  intuition,  strong  and  pure, 
Alone  soars  fetterless  to  realms  above, 

Leaping  in  scorn  past  reason's  bounds,  secure 
Where  sentient  knowledge  dies,  true  life  to  prove  ; 

Emotion,  feeling,  these  alone  endure  ; 

Thank  God  !  God  is  not  Intellect,  but  Love. 


70 


AN  EARLY-APRIL  MORNING. 

A  CROSS  the  sky  the  rifted  clouds  pursue 

Rare  shapes  enwrought  to  wonders  manifold, 
And  robins  glance  obliquely  to  behold 
The  cawing  caravans  that  speck  the  blue  ; 
Thy  jewels  are  half  a  frost  and  half  a  dew, 
And  o'er  the  earthy  stretches  of  the  wold 
A  warm  caress,  from  fingers  still  a-cold, 
Falls  like  an  old  song  in  a  cadence  new. 

Dear  Morning  !  with  thy  maid's  hair  unconfined 

By  virgin  fillets  of  a  later  spring, 

Risen  as  from  a  rounded  dream  to  find 

The  world  a-riot  for  a  bourgeoning, 

Thy  eyes  spill  sleep  and  sunlight,  while  the  wind 

Beats  blood  to  blushes  with  his  gusty  wing. 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS. 

A  MBITION'S  finger  beckoned  and  I  ran 

With   bleeding   feet   o'er  rugged  paths  and 

drear, 

Spurning  the  inward  whispers,  soft  and  clear, 
Which  said  :  "  In  vain  !  Thy  life  is  but  a  span  ; 
The  grave  shall  cover  all."  Still,  in  the  van 
Of  human  action,  I  thought  soon  to  rear 
Some  mighty  monument  to  vanquished  fear, 
— A  shaft  to  mark  the  triumph  of  a  Man. 

Poor  fool !  My  gold  was  lost  amid  the  dross  ; 
Hope  died  within  me,  and,  as  one  who  mourns, 
I  bowed  before  a  bitter  sense  of  loss, 
Clinging  despairing  to  the  altar's  horns, 
And  raised  my  eyes  to  where,  upon  the  cross, 
In  sad  reproval,  hung  a  crown  of  thorns. 


ELECTRA. 

I\/TY  Love  too  stately  is  to  be  but  fair, 

Too  fair  she  is  for  naught  but  stateliness  ; 
She  bids  me  Nay,  and  yet  a  silent  Yes 

Dwells  in  the  dusk  her  shadowy  eyelids  wear. 

My  Love's  step  makes  a  music  in  the  air, 
Touching  the  sense  with  a  divine  caress, 
And  all  the  rapture  of  the  dawn  doth  bless 

The  light  that  leaps  to  life  across  her  hair. 

Her  mouth  is  just  the  love-couch  for  a  song, 
And  'mid  the  fragrance  of  its  riven  flowers 

Low  laughter  breaks  and  trembles  close  to  tears 
Mingled  of  mirth  and  melody,  as  a  throng 
Of  bird  notes  wakes  to  joy  the  drowsy  hours 
And  weaves  delight  through  all  the  grieving 
years. 


73 


BEDTIME. 

A  S  children,  who,  through  all  the  sunburnt  day, 
Have  tossed  aside  their  playthings,  one  by 

one, 

Ceasing  each  frolic  ere  't  were  well  begun 
To  taste  the  joyance  of  some  newer  play, 
When  bedtime  comes,  turn  from  their  games  away, 
With  little  feet  too  heavy  now  to  run 
And  eyes  too  full  of  sleep  to  miss  the  sun 
Whose  beams  still  on  the  mother's  forehead  stay  ; 

So  we,  tired  children  of  the  garnered  years, 
Grown  weary  of  our  toys  of  gold  and  place, 
Nor  craving  uncompanioned  days  to  reap 
The  harvest  of  our  half  remembered  tears, 
Look  in  the  universal  mother's  face, 

And  murmuring  :  "  It  is  bedtime,"  fall  asleep. 


74 


DECORATION  DAY. 

ET  fall  the  roses  gently.     It  may  be 

That  in  the  sunlight  of  a  fairer  clime 
They  shall  rebloom  to  beauty  as  sublime 
As  this  departed  flower  of  chivalry  ; 
And  ever  as  the  sobbing  of  the  sea, 

Breeze-rippled,  breaks  to   chants   of   lordlier 

rhyme, 

Silence  your  dirges,  and  in  martial  time 
Let  loud-lipped  trumpets  blazon  victory  ! 

Yield  not  to  grief  the  solace  of  a  tear, 

But  'neath  the  forefront  of  a  spacious  sky 

Smile  all  exultant,  as  they  smiled  at  fear 
Who  dared  to  do  when  doing  meant  to  die. 

So  best  may  comrades  prove  remembrance  dear, 
So  best  be  hallowed  earth  where  soldiers  lie. 


75 


A   SONNET  OF  SILENCE. 

PlPTOE,  with  finger  at  her  lip,  and  rare 
Red-rose  mouth  rounded  to  a  song  unsung, 

A  mute  maid  half  a-dream  her  flowers  among,- 
Nature,  whose  love  the  loves  of  all  men  bear, 
Whose  eyes  the  eyes  of  all  men  have  found  fair, 

Feels  in  the  changes  on  her  spirit  rung 

The  melody  of  an  unspoken  tongue, 
The  eloquence  of  silence  everywhere. 

Hushed  is  the  poesy  of  Summer  flowers, 
Silent  the  vast  evangel  of  the  stars, 

And  Time,  whose  noiseless  fingers  tell  the  hours 

Like  beads  upon  a  vestal's  rosary, 

Hears  voiceless  music  writ  in  golden  bars, — 

The  mirth  of  moonlight  silent  on  the  sea. 


76 


VICTOR  HUGO. 
(MAY  22,  1885.) 

VANGELIST  of  truth,  whose  sovereign  glance 
Encompassed  centuries,  and  from  the  fen 
Of  passion  wrested  beauty  ;  thou  whose  pen 
Ennobled  love  and  glorified  romance  ; 
Great  champion  of  liberty,  whose  lance — 
A  beacon  to  the  wavering  hearts  of  men — 
Impaled  the  false,  and  ever  and  again 
Bare  death  to  tyranny  and  fame  to  France. 

To  thee  immortal  laurel  wreaths  belong, 
To  us  a  memory  that  the  world  reveres  ; 

'T  was  t"hine  to  know  the  good,  to  right  the  wrong 
'T  is  ours  to  glean  the  fruitage  of  thy  years  ; 

Thou  gav'st  to  us  a  gift  divine — thy  song, 
We  give  to  thee  our  human  tribute— tears. 


77 


WALT  WHITMAN. 
(MAY  31,   1886.) 

T3OLD  innovator  in  the  realm  of  thought  ; 

Strong-sinewed  Titan,  righting  for  the  right, 
And  wresting  from  the  panoplies  of  night 

The  glories  that  the  patient  stars  have  caught 

From  an  evanished  sun  ;  brave  teacher  taught 
By  Nature's  lips  to  see  with  Nature's  sight, 
And  so  to  shed  day's  fair,  unsullied  light 

Upon  the  work  your  rugged  hands  have  wrought. 

You  stand  serene  upon  your  mountain  crag, 

Unmindful  of  the  shallow  hum  which  fills 

• 

The  valleys  with  derision.     You  can  wait, 
And  waiting,  find  your  own,  when  prescient  Fate 
Shall  grant  slow  justice,  and  unfurl  the  flag 
Of  Innocency  on  a  thousand  hills. 


WALT  WHITMAN. 
(MARCH  26,  1892.) 

ARKNESS  and  death  ?     Nay,  Pioneer,  for  thee 

The  day  of  deeper  vision  has  begun  ; 
There  is  no  darkness  for  the  central  sun 
Nor  any  death  for  immortality. 
At  last  the  song  of  all  fair  songs  that  be, 
At  last  the  guerdon  of  a  race  well  run, 
The  upswelling  joy  to  know  the  victory  won, 
The  river's  rapture  when  it  finds  the  sea. 

Ah,  thou  art  wrought  in  an  heroic  mould, 

The  modern  man  upon  whose  brow  yet  stays 
A  gleam  of  glory  from  the  age  of  gold, — 

A  diadem  which  all  the  gods  have  kissed. 
Hail  and  farewell  !  flower  of  the  antique  days, — 
Democracy's  divine  protagonist. 


79 


TO  JOHN  KEATS. 

r^\EEP  in  the  whisp'ring  pine  whose  profile  bars 
The  moon's  white  face  ;  hush'd  in  the  per- 
fumed bowers, 

Where,  languid  with  the  breath  of  sleeping  flowers, 
The  summer  night  lies  panoplied  in  stars  ; 
High  on  the  mountain  crags  of  brakes  and  scars, 
A  spirit  sought  to  find  in  poesy's  powers 
Some  beauty  to  bedeck  time's  conquering  hours, 
Like  roses  on  the  flaming  front  of  Mars. 

Yet  still,  tho'  lovingly,  he  sought  in  vain, 

Till  nature's  blossom  bore  the  bloom  of  art, — 

Till  ecstasy  of  joy  had  wedded  pain 

In  bonds  which  never  hand  of  man  shall  part  ; 

Then  found  within  the  chambers  of  thy  brain 
The  sacred  fire  to  light  Endymion's  heart. 


80 


TO  HERBERT  SPENCER. 

HHINKER  of  ages!  probing  pregnant  deeps 
Of  potent  science,  till  your  trained  eye  saw, 

Amid  the  maze,  a  unity  of  law, — 
An  ordered  motion  whose  pulse  ever  keeps 
Its  time-beat  while  the  silent  cosmos  sleeps, 

Calm  in  its  poise  !  The  glory  yours  to  draw 

From  myths  of  special  causes  the  hid  flaw 
That  marks  them  false.     Humanity  so  reaps 

The  fruitful  harvest  that  your  hands  have  sown, 
And  finds  in  Force,  evolved,  dispelled,  the  trace 

Of  that  design  which,  knowing,  yet  unknown, 
Thrills  through  a  universe  from  crown  to  base. 

The  fact  is  ours, — the  honor  yours  alone 
To  fling  this  beacon  into  trackless  space  ! 


81 


AN   IDLE  DAY: 

A    SEQUENCE    OF    SONNETS. 


ONE     O  CLOCK. 

SALVE. 

C  LEEP,  soft  begetter  of  our  fantasies  ! 

Inconsequent  philosopher  of  dreams  ! 
I  give  thee  greeting  as  a  friend  who  seems 

To  link  my  spirit  to  the  slumbering  trees  ; 

Yet  farewell  for  a  season  ;  hours  like  these 

Bear  golden  freightage  on  their  hurrying  streams, 
— Brave  argosies  of  thought  enriched  by  gleams 

Divinely  dowered  of  deepest  mysteries. 

I  am  in  love  with  Earth,  and  find  it  fair 
To  lie  within  the  rondure  of  her  arms 

Beneath  a  plenitude  of  stars,  caressing 
The  moony  midnight  of  her  tressed  hair, 

And  draining  from  her  fruitful  lips  the  blessing 
And  guerdon  of  her  immemorial  charms. 


TWO     O  CLOCK. 

HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

C  ILENCE,  that  art  the  harbinger  of  thought, 

And  Fancy,  foster-child  of  Solitude  ; 
Companions  of  the  meadow  and  the  wood, 
Whose  cheer  my  early  morning  steps  have  sought ; 
How  fair  the  fabric  by  your  cunning  wrought 
Upon  my  mild  and  meditative  mood, 
The  while  the  unneighbored  stars  do  bend   and 

brood 
Above  the  vasty  darkness  vision-fraught ! 

Ah  !  beating  heart  of  the  soft  sandaled  night ! 
Slow  pulse  of  sad  hours  orphaned  of  the  sun  ! 
Your  rhythm  is  timed  to  measures  of  that  song 
Which  strong  seraphic  voices  roll  along, 
From  mountain  height  to  towering  mountain  height, 
Like  the  proud  paean  for  a  victory  won. 


86 


THREE    O  CLOCK. 

PROMISE  OF  DAWN. 

A     POTENCY  and  promise.     Far  away 

Gaunt  figures  grow  to  being  in  the  mist ; 
A  woven  wonder  of  pale  amethyst, 
Shot  through  with  filaments  of  paler  gray, 
Spreads  like  a  vestment  for  the  unborn  day, 

Trailing  imperial  skirts  where  clouds  have  kissed 
The  silence-haunted  hills  which  lean  and  list 
The  utterance  of  the  everlasting  Yea. 

Let  there  be  Light !  I  seem  to  hear  the  cry 
Down  all  the  ample  corridors  of  Night, 

And  dark  infinitudes  of  lonesome  sky 

Grow  voluble  with  that  majestic  calling, 
Reverberant  echoes  ever  faintlier  falling 

Through  leagues  of  viewless  air  :  Let  there  be  Light ! 


FOUR    O  CLOCK. 

DAYBREAK  IN  THE  WOODS. 

"XT  IGHT  falls  away  and  fades  along  the  breeze, 

Lost  in  the  turning  of  diurnal  tides, 
The  morning,  like  a  pallid  virgin,  glides 

In  cool  seclusion  'mid  the  spectral  trees  ; 

And  I,  more  early  risen  than  the  bees 

Whose  tardy  wooing  the  laburnum  chides, 
Am  ravished  by  an  undersong  that  bides 

The  lapsing  of  the  leafy  harmonies. 

I  lift  my  lips  to  meet  the  kiss  of  Morn, 

Breathing   the  breath   of   Day's   sweet   maiden- 
time, 

And  feel  within  my  spirit,  loverwise, 
The  deep,  divine  elation  sometimes  born 
Of  strains  of  music  or  a  far-off  chime 
Or  love-light  lambent  in  a  woman's  eyes. 


FIVE     O  CLOCK. 

A  WOODLAND  POET. 

A    LIQUID  music  wrought  of  many  a  trill, 
Light  as  low  laughter  o'er  a  summer  lea, 
Pours  down  the  greenwood  aisles  an  ecstasy, — 
Utters  its  rapture,  falters  and  is  still. 
Wood  Robin  !  Sylvan  Poet  that  dost  spill 
Such    dear   delights    through    listening   leaves 

Thou  free 

Spendthrift  of  joy  and  hoarded  melody  ! 
What  strange  love  philter  hath  beguiled  thy  will  ? 

For  I  do  think  there  live  within  thy  breast 
The  faith  and  fervor  of  an  antique  age, 

Tuning  thy  note,  at  Beauty's  soft  behest, 
Our  sordid  aspiration  to  assuage, 

And  to  our  dull  ears  making  manifest 
The  pulse  and  passion  of  our  heritage. 


89 


SIX    0  CLOCK. 

THE  FARM-YARD. 

T   T  NHARROWED  by  the  toiling  town's  alarm, 

In  blest  seclusion  from  the  daily  fret 
Which  avarice  and  blinded  greed  beget, 
Bask  the  broad  acres  of  the  peaceful  farm  ; 
And  in  its  special  angle,  walled  from  harm, 

The  barn-yard,  deep  with  husks  of  corn  which 

yet 

Smell  of  the  fields  and  tell  of  honest  sweat, 
Lies  in  the  morning  sunshine,  wide  and  warm. 

Here  huddled  fatlings  slumber  in  the  pens, 

While  the  cocks'  shrill  defiances  outsoar 
The  soft  staccato  of  maternal  hens  ; 

And  from  the  populous  tangles  of  a  vine 
Pert  sparrows  perch  upon  the  stable  door ; 
And  bright  pails  foam  beneath  large-uddered 
kine. 


90 


SEVEN    O  CLOCK. 

BLENDED  VOICES. 

"\JATURE  is  full  of  voices  ;  some  that  plead 

And  some  that  sorrow  and  yet   more   that 

sing  ; 

Forever  keeping  for  my  questioning 
A  satisfying  answer.     This  frail  reed 
Along  the  marshes  whispers  of  its  need  ; 
And  in  the  whirring  of  a  sudden  wing 
I  catch  the  lilt  of  love,  wherein  the  sting 
Yet  lingers  of  love's  half-forgotten  creed. 

I  hear  a  ditty  made  of  woven  sighs — 

A  heart-break  in  a  cadence  ;  and  again 
The  little  lisping  of  a  crippled  child 
Full  of  the  tender  eloquence  of  pain  ; 
And  evermore  a  monotone  of  mild 
And  mellow  music  born  in  Paradise. 


EIGHT    O  CLOCK. 

CLOVER. 

JUST  where  the  maples  whisper  morning  vows 
To  the  quick  runnel  with  its  mimic  tides, 
I  know  a  field  of  clover  which  divides 
The  meadow  grasses  from  the  orchard  boughs  ; 
And  there,  knee  deep,  stand  contemplative  cows, 
With  eyes  benignant  and  swift  shuddering  hides 
And  beaded  noses  and  a  breath  where  'bides 
The  garnered  sweetness  of  the  scented  mows. 

They  stand,  unmindful  of  a  world  of  strife 

Wherein  men's  souls  are  battered  to  a  lie, 
And  hoarded  dollars  are  the  goal  of  life, 

And  every  mart  is  tolling  Beauty's  knell, — 
Where  he  's  a  hero  who  can  cheapest  buy, 
And  he  a  god  who  can  the  dearest  sell. 


92 


NINE    O  CLOCK. 

WHISPERS  OF  THE    CORN. 

A  \7HAT  sunlit  spaces  !     Is  the  world  asleep, 

Lulled  by  the  murmurous  voices  of  the  morn, 
The  while  amid  the  serried  ranks  of  corn 

The  keen-edged  leaves  their  idle  gossip  keep  ? 

Perhaps  it  is  but  fancy  that  some  deep 

And  mythic  message  to  my  sense  is  borne, — 
Half  a  light  song,  and  half  a  sigh  forlorn, 

Like  laughter  on  the  lips  of  them  that  weep. 

Indeed  I  know  not  ;  yet  within  my  ears 

Linger  such  honeyed  accents  as  beteem 

Strange  sweetness  to  the  melody  of  tears, 

And  to  rejoicing  new  delights  which  seem 

The  tender  lays  of  long-forgotten  years, 

Reechoed  softly  through  a  tranquil  dream. 


93 


TEN    O  CLOCK. 

MID-MORN. 

T3EAUTY  is  never  wholly  lost  to  sight, 

For  though  she  shrink  affrighted  at  the  din, 
Haply  her  presence  still  does  enter  in 

The  open  doorway  of  our  hearts  to  light 

Our  lives  to  righteousness.  Nor  may  the  might 
Of  Mammon  or  the  manacles  of  sin 
Prevent  her  perfectness,  nor  ever  win 

The  scent  from  roses  or  the  stars  from  night. 

So,  lying  prone  along  the  summer  grass, 

I  am  content  with  all  things  ;  and  the  air 

Comes  laden  with  a  song,  and  clouds  that  pass 
Above  me  to  my  soul  a  promise  bear  ; 

And  every  meadow-lark  a  message  has, 
And  every  meadow  flower  is  a  prayer. 


94 


ELEVEN    O  CLOCK. 

A  WAYSIDE  SPRING. 

"THRICE-BLEST    Tranquillity    that     dwellest 

here! 

How  like  a  guardian  soul  with  silent  wing 
Thou  hoverest  above  this  wayside  spring 

Outgushing  in  mellifluence  cool  and  clear  ! 

Faring  along  the  dusty  road,  I  near 

The  dripping  stones  whereto  wet  mosses  cling, 
And  sit  me  down  in  sheer  content,  and  sing, 

And  hearken  to  the  far-off  chanticleer. 

What  art  could  so  have  satisfied  my  whim 
As  this  half  cocoanut  ?     I  take  it  up 
And  dally  with  anticipation,  then 
Dip  deep  and  drink  to  all  wayfaring  men 
In  liquid  ecstasy  which  wooes  the  brim 
Of  this  inimitable  drinking  cup. 


95 


NOON. 

HALF  WAY  TO  ARCADY. 

PHE  faultless  fervor  of  a  day  in  June  ; 
An  insect-whisper  vibrant  in  the  air  ; 

The  breath  of  daisies  shedding  everywhere 
Soft  wafture  o'er  the  lids  of  nodding  noon. 
Deep  in  the  listening  woods  an  ancient  croon 

Of  hermit  crickets  weaving  a  fanfare 

Through  slender  undertones,  elusive,  rare 
As  songs  in  sleep  sung  to  an  antique  tune. 

The  far-off  Sabbath-voice  of  chiming  bells 
A  peace  evangel  murmurs  to  the  heart  ; 

A  scent,  half  clover's  and  half  asphodel's, 

Falters    through    dusks    wherein    strange    music 
dwells  ; 

Is  it  the  echo  of  Pan's  pipe  which  tells 
Its  story  to  the  ravished  ears  of  Art  ? 


96 


ONE   O  CLOCK. 

A  WILD  ROSE. 

"\  ^\ /"HERE  the  warm  upland  melts  against  the  blue, 
An   ancient   fence,   o'er  which   the  lichen 

grows, 

Meets  a  more  ancient  wall  ;  and  rare  repose 
Dwells  in  the  myriad  little  sounds  which  sue 
The  aged  silences  in  accents  new  ; 

And  in  that  sun-soaked  angle  blooms  a  rose, 
Whose  heart,  blood-tinctured  by  the  joy  it  knows, 
Just  forms  the  chalice  for  a  drop  of  dew. 

There  will  I  lie  and  dream  and  idly  wreathe 
The  tender  grasses  till  my  heart  discover 

Somewhat  of  their  content ;  and  there,  beneath 
The  vines  o'er  which  pale  butterflies  do  hover, 

I  '11  listen  while  the  passionate  rose  doth  breathe 
Her  soft  love-secrets  to  her  powdered  lover. 


97 


TWO    O  CLOCK. 

ROADWAY  DUST. 

A  LONG  the  honest  turnpike  honest  dust 

Keeps  its  true  color,  mindless  of  the  fields, — 
Scorning  the  brighter  tints  which  summer  yields, 
Nor  aping  flowers  that  bloom  because  they  must  ; 
It  is  a  type  of  individual  trust 

In  one's  own  selfhood, — a  true  force  that  wields 
The  power  which    moves  the  world,  and  ever 

shields 
Man  from  servility  that  breeds  disgust. 

I  '11  bow  to  genius,  every  reverence  show, 
And  sit  all  meekly  at  the  feet  of  art, 

Albeit  I  will  not  imitate  a  king, 
Nor  strive  to  be  another's  counterpart, 
For  though  't  is  great  to  be  an  Angelo, 

To  be  one's  self  is  yet  a  greater  thing  ! 


THREE    O  CLOCK. 

WHEAT-BILLOWS. 

^HE  ground  slopes  upward  towards  a  little  h     i 
Drenched    in   the    sunlight,  and   within  the 

space 

A  field  of  wheat,  o'er  which  the  breezes  trace 
Tremors  of  light  and  shade  that  throb  and  thrill 
In  billowy  undulations,  quickening  till 
The  field  lies  like  a  love-enamored  face 
Upturned  to  let  the  warm  caresses  chase 
Each  other,  that  the  wind  may  have  his  will. 

So  have  I  seen  a  woman  luring  love 

With  quivering  silk  lips  and  breath  of  fire, 

The  while  across  her  cheek  in  colors  clear 
The  swift  blood  chased  the  pallors  of  desire, 
And  strange  mistrust  her  tender  bosom  clove, 

And  half  her  heart  was  flame  and  half  was  fear. 


99 


FOUR    O  CLOCK. 

REMEMBRANCE. 

A  QUICK  commotion  in  the  startled  leaves, 
A  shudder  of  the  living  green  ;  I  know 
It  was  a  bird  that  winged  its  flight,  although 
I  saw  no  creature.     So  my  soul  receives 
Time's  fleeting  passage  as  my  life  it  cleaves 
With  human  happiness  or  human  woe  ; 
Such  are  the  memories  that  come  and  go, 
The  while  the  sun  his  dappled  patchwork  weaves. 

And  I,  who  lean  and  dream,  am  half  in  love 

With  things  unreal  and  passion's  whitened  em- 
bers, 

Embracing  shadowy  shapes,  nor  asking  why 
A  vanished  beauty  holds  a  joy  above 

All  others,  as  the  saddened  night  remembers 
Dead  meteors  that  have  once  illumed  a  sky. 


FIVE    O  CLOCK. 

ASPIRATION. 

f^\ROWSING  beneath  the  hum  of  summer  bees, 
Marking  with  half-closed  eyes  the  liberal  sky, 
Lulled  to  soft  slumbers  by  the  lullaby 
Of  winds  grown  voluble  among  the  trees, 
My  seeking  soul,  as  one  who  fain  would  seize 
The  passing  passion  of  a  song  on  high, 
Leaps  upward  with  the  immemorial  cry 
Which  God  has  echoed  down  the  centuries. 

The  kindred  spirits  of  the  sunburnt  day 
Make  earth  a  heaven  and  existence  bliss, — 

Plume  with  Mercurial  wings  my  feet  of  clay 
And  touch  my  brows  with  a  celestial  kiss, 

Till  lips  that  faltered  lisp  a  loftier  lay, 

And  from  a  fairer  world  bring  peace  to  this 


101 


SIX    O  CLOCK. 

CLOUD-MAGIC. 

IMAGINATION  is  the  highest  truth  ; 

And  I,  upgazing  through  the  spaces  clear 

To  mark  the  clouds'  caprices,  am  a  seer, 
From  Fancy's  fabric  fashioning  uncouth 
Yet  faithful  images, — such  forms,  in  sooth, 

As  tempt  to  favor  while  they  touch  with  fear ; 

Misshapen  giants  with  a  changeful  leer ; 
Nude  naiads  glorious  in  perennial  youth. 

Then  passionate  faces  yearning  towards  the  West, 
The  nostrils  palpitant  with  strange  desire, 
A  shudder  quickening  the  nether  lip, 

Wherefrom  the  blood  dies  of  its  own  unrest ; 
Again  a  sudden  change  ;  a  helmless  ship  ; 
The  chaos  of  the  red  sun's  funeral  pyre. 


102 


SEVEN     O  CLOCK. 

THE    BROOK. 

T    IGHT-HEARTED  babbler  of  a  thousand  tales, 

Half  sung,  half  spoken,  and  in  broken  trills 
Borne  lightly  to  my  ear,  thy  music  fills 
My  heart  with  joy  when  summer  daylight  pales, 
And  through  the  murmurous  glooms  of   shadowy 

dales 

Thou  bearest  whispers  from  the  distant  hills  ; 
And  as  the  iterant  voices  of  thy  rills 
Sing  among  pebbles,  visions  of  white  sails 

That  top  quaint  fishing  craft  upon  the  river 
Wherein  thou  find'st  at  last  thy  resting-place, 

Rise  up  before  me  and  in  silence  quiver 
Like  sudden  smiles  across  a  questioning  face  ; 

Till  wider  fancy  seems  to  picture  thee 

Enfolded,  yet  still  singing,  in  the  sea. 


103 


EIGHT    O  CLOCK. 

THE    TWILIGHTS. 

A    LIGHT  wind  loiters  down  the  wooded  ways, 

**•     Bearing  the  breath  of  orchards  and  replete 
With  such  an  essence  as  alone  should  greet 

A  sense  grown  fine  through  many  vagrant  days. 

A  sigh  among  the  slender  leafage  stays, 

And  married  lights  break  into  shafts  and  meet 
Where  weary  Nature,  in  her  green  retreat, 

Upon  her  lips  a  hushing  finger  lays. 

A  dying  radiance  through  the  thicket  gleams, 
The  colors  of  the  day  are  slowly  furled, 
A  mystery  trembles  onward  silverly, — 
A  lily  on  the  bosom  of  the  world, — 
Elusive  as  the  pageantry  of  dreams 

Or  moonlight  sleeping  on  a  summer  sea. 


104 


NINE   O  CLOCK. 

PERSPECTIVE. 

T  PAUSE  upon  a  mystic  borderland 

Wherefrom  the  visible  world  seems  all  besprent 
With  flowers  of  changeful  hue  and  colors  blent 

In  strange  confusion.     I  do  think  a  band 

Of  those  Greek  heroes  who  once,  hand  to  hand, 
Fought  for  the  prizes  which  the  gods  had   sent, 
Sometime  their  glowing  presence  must  have  lent 

To  these  green  aisles  where  wooded  sentries  stand. 

How  weirdly,  through  the  glooms  of  yonder  tree, 
Wavers  the  owl's  cry,  with  its  minor  strains 

Fateful  as  dirges  sung  to  murdered  joy, — 
Sad  as  the  sobs  of  pale  Andromache 

To  see  her  Hector,  foul  with  gory  stains, 
Dragged  pitilessly  'neath  the  walls  of  Troy  ! 


105 


TEN  O  CLOCK. 

FANTASY. 

A  S  some  luxurious  beauty  of  the  East, 

Grown  languid  in  the  cassia-scented  air, 
With  narrowed  eyes  looks  through  her  sultry  hair, 
And  toys  the  sweetmeats  at  a  regal  feast, 
The  while  her  bodice,  from  its  cords  released, 
Stays  still  a-warm  to  know  her  bosom  there, — 
So  seems  the  night,  with  constellations  fair, 
Heavy  with  scents  left  when  the  breezes  ceased. 

Am  I  alone  ?     Is  not  some  spirit  here  ? 
Across  the  waiting  air  there  comes  a  call  ; 

High  overhead  the  tasselled  branches  nod, 
With  just  a  whisper  flattering  the  ear, 

And  silence,  with  its  million  tongues,  fills  all 
The  woodland  spaces  with  the  name  of  God. 


106 


ELEVEN    O  CLOCK. 

NOCTURNE. 

A    NIGHT  bird,  from  the  hollow  of  the  dark, 

Beats  upward  through  the  pulseless  air  and 

dies 

Into  the  mighty  mystery  of  the  skies 
That  bend,  with  large  imperial  brows,  to  mark 
Earth's  slumbering  perfectness,  mayhap  to  hark 
Her  little  breathings  as  she  lightly  lies, — 
To-morrow's  sunlight  prisoned  in  her  eyes, 
And  in  her  heart  songs  of  to-morrow's  lark. 

So  thoughts  which  will  not  wear  the  yoke  of  words, 
Fretting  the  stillness  with  their  whispering  wings, 

Take  flight  more  swift  and  silent  than  the  bird's, 
Into  a  heaven  of  vaster  fashionings  ; 

And  unknown  beauty  all  my  vision  girds, 
And  voiceless  music  through  my  spirit  sings. 


107 


MIDNIGHT. 

VALE. 

/'~>\H  !  tender  benison  of  darkness,  cast 

^-^^     Upon  the  throbbing  bosom  of  the  earth, — 

Dropt  as  a  mantle  over  all  the  mirth 
And  madness  of  the  day, — thou  ever  hast 
A  sweet  compassion  for  us,  and  at  last 
A  poppied  peace  !     I  gaze  upon  the  girth 
Of  heaven,  heavy  with  the  rare  new  birth 
Of  beauty  crescent  through  the  spaces  vast, 

The  while  the  unruffled  forehead  of  the  night 
Lifts  royally  its  diadem  of  stars  ; 

Then,  as  a  sleeper  fares  adown  his  way 
'Mid  dreamy  meadows,  lying  still  and  white, 

I  thread  the  moonlit  lane,  pass  through  the  bars, 
And  close  the  record  of  an  idle  day. 


108 


A  PRIMROSE   PATH 


SONGS     AND    TRIFLES. 


109 


BETWEEN. 

OETWEEN  the  sea  sand  and  the  sea 
The  yellow  foam  flakes  lightly  lie, 
A  very  dross  of  waves,  till  free 

Quick-kissing  breezes  surge  and  sigh, 
And  all  the  laurels  on  the  lea 

Bend  low  to  listen  as  bends  the  sky 
Where  spaces  throb  with  melody. 

Then  foam  is  wrought  to  gold,  and  I, 
Silent,  find  Heaven  surrounding  me — 

In  gilded  fringe — in  breeze's  sigh  ; 
Between  the  sea  sand  and  the  sea 

Where  yellow  foam  flakes  lightly  lie  ; 
Where  spaces  throb  with  melody 

Between  the  skylark  and  the  sky. 

Between  the  sunset  and  the  sun 

Night  slumbers  on  the  sleeping  bars. 
And  through  its  curtain,  one  by  one, 

Gleam  tender  glances  of  the  stars 
Between  the  sunset  and  the  sun. 
And  so  between  my  love's  lips  lies 

An  untold  message  meant  for  me  ; 
Whether  't  will  bring  me  sweet  surprise 
Or  dole  or  doubt  or  Paradise 

Is  known  alone  to  destiny. 


1 1 2  Cradle  Song. 

Yet,  as  I  wait,  a  dream  of  tears 

Between  her  eyelids  and  her  eyes — 

A  mystery  of  mist — appears, 

That  hints  of  hope  and  flatters  fears, 
And  on  her  lips  a  shudder  of  sighs, 
And  on  her  lids  a  red  that  dies 
To  slumberous  shadows  that  fall  and  rise, 

Till  as  I  seek  some  sign  to  see, 
Between  her  eyelids  and  her  eyes 

Love  lights  his  lamp  and  laughs  at  me. 


CRADLE    SONG. 
[FROM  THE  DRAMA  "MARIE  DEL  CARMEN."] 

C  LEEP,  my  pretty  one, 
Sleep,  my  little  one, 
Rose  in  the  garden  is  blooming  so  red  ; 

Over  the  flowers  the  fleet-footed  hours 
Dance  into  dreamland  to  melody  wed 

To  the  voice  of  the  stream — to  a  song  in  a  dream, 
Sung  low  by  the  brook  to  its  stone-covered  bed, 
Sung  soft  as  it  goes  ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  rose 
Gives  a  tremulous  leap 
As  the  melody  flows. 
Ah,  little  one,  sleep, 
Sleep. 


Cradle  Song.  i  r  3 

Peace,  my  little  one, 
Peace,  my  pretty  one, 
Lilies  bend  low  to  the  breath  of  the  breeze  ; 

Lithe  as  a  willow,  the  boat  on  the  billow 
High  tosses  the  spray  for  the  sunlight  to  tease 

With  a  kiss  and  a  tear — with  a  rainbow,  a  fear, 
For  the  light  is  the  sun's  and  the  spray  is  the  sea's. 
And  the  wind  o'er  the  lea 
Breaks  to  cadences  free 
As  the  waves  that  release 
The  low  laugh  of  the  sea. 
My  pretty  one,  peace, 
Peace. 

Joy,  my  pretty  one, 
Joy,  my  little  one, 

Fairies  of  night  from  their  bright-jewelled  cars 
Fling  a  faint  sheen  and  shimmer  on  ripples  where 

glimmer 

The  up-gazing  eyes  of  the  down-gazing  stars  ; 
And  the  boat,  while  it  glides,  sings  the  song  of 

the  tides 

As  they  kiss  into  languor  the  sand  of  the  bars. 
Oh,  river  flow  fleet, 
Ere  the  melody  meet 
The  sea's  breath  to  destroy 
What  the  echoes  repeat : 
My  little  ope,  joy, 
Joy! 


H4  Caprice. 


CAPRICE. 

A     SUMMER  night  with  perfumed  breath 
**     Told  love-tales  to  the  listening  trees, 
And  hedge-row  buds,  in  guise  of  death, 

Dreamed  of  the  kisses  of  the  bees, 
While,  wheeling,  circling,  faint  and  far, 

A  firefly  showed  its  shimmering  spark, 
And,  like  an  evanescent  star, 

Painted  its  life  along  the  dark  ; 
And  I,  who  wandered  in  the  lane, 

Grew  envious  of  a  thing  so  free, 
And  sighed  and  gazed  and  sighed  again, 

And  cried  :  "  Kind  Heaven  give  to  me 
The  firefly's  liberty." 

My  love  came  tripping  down  the  lane  ; 

The  boughs  bent  low  to  touch  her  head  ; 
The  clover  never  felt  the  pain 

Of  death  beneath  so  light  a  tread  ; 
And  ere  I  knew,  the  firefly's  wings 

Were  tangled  in  her  burnished  hair, 
The  intermittent  glimmerings 

Illumining  a  face  more  fair  ; 
Then  I,  who  felt  my  heart  beat  wild 

The  love-light  in  her  eyes  to  see, 
Became  capricious  as  a  child, 

And  prayed  :  "  Sweet  Heaven  grant  to  me 
A  like  captivity." 


A  Serenade. 


1 1 


A  SERENADE. 


I. 


roses  asleep  in  the  starlight, 
On  daisies  that  dream  of  the  sky, 
The  tremor  and  touch  of  a  far  light 

Falls  faint  through  the  spaces  on  high, — 
Falls  fair  where  the  tendrils  are  clinging, 
Lies  light  where  the  lilies  are  flinging 
Perfumes  to  the  winds  that  are  singing 
A  song  that  is  born  of  a  sigh. 


II. 


Low  brows  for  a  thousand  caresses, 

Lithe  throat  for  a  season's  delight, 
Ah  !  spice-scented  wonder  of  tresses 

Dim-shadowed  and  duskily  bright, 
Pale  passionate  arms  that  embower 

Light  love  that  endures  but  an  hour, 
Lips  pressed  like  a  flower  on  a  flower, 

Eyes  dark  with  the  spell  of  the  night. 

III. 

Bitter-sweet  though  the  pang  and  the  pleasure, 
I  would  rather  be  bounden  than  free  ; 

Life  treadeth  a  statelier  measure 

With  the  finger  of  Love  on  the  key  ; 


1 1 6  Loir  Came  to  Me. 

Pain  kisses  the  rod  of  the  Giver, 
As  the  ripples  in  ecstasy  quiver 

Where  breaks  the  sad  heart  of  the  river 
In  the  turbulent  heart  of  the  sea. 


LOVE  CAME  TO  ME. 

I    OVE  came  to  me  when  I  was  young  ; 
*—'    He  brought  me  songs,  he  brought  me  flowers  ; 
Love  wooed  me  lightly,  trees  among, 
And  dallied  under  scented  bowers  ; 

And  loud  he  carolled  :  "  Love  is  King  !  " 
For  he  was  riotous  as  spring 

And  careless  of  the  hours, — 
When  I  was  young. 

Love  lingered  near  when  I  grew  old  ; 

He  brought  me  light  from  stars  above  ; 
And  consolations  manifold 
He  fluted  to  me  like  a  dove  ; 
And  love  leaned  out  of  Paradise 
And  gently  kissed  my  faded  eyes 

And  whispered  :  "  God  is  Love," — 
When  I  grew  old. 


Flower  o'  the  Sea.  1 1 7 


FLOWER  O'  THE  SEA. 

A     LITTLE  maiden  debonair 
**•     With  sunshine  tangled  in  her  hair, 
Along  with  me,  beside  the  sea, 
Trod  yellow  sands,  and  clapped  her  hands 
To  see  the  foam  come  rolling  home, — 
Come  rolling  home  right  royally. 

She  never  dreamed  that  she  was  fair, 
This  little  maiden  debonair, 
Nor  questioned  I  the  reason  why 
I  found  to  stray  with  her  alway 
Was  veriest  joy, — I  but  a  boy 
With  small  feet  brown  and  bare. 

And  once  a  wave  broke  high  in  air, 

Scattering  foam  flakes  everywhere, 

And  something  bright  flashed  in  the  sight 

Of  her,  my  maiden  debonair  ; 

And  when  the  tide  went  out,  she  cried  : 

"  See,  see  ;  a  pearl  !     The  breakers  hurl 

Their  gems  to  land  for  our  delight." 

And  so  we  strayed,  my  little  maid 

And  I,  beside  the  sea  ; 

And  onward  sped  the  silent  years,_ 

And  silenter  grew  we, 

For  I  was  thoughtfuller,  and  she 

Was  not  the  same  to  me. 


1 1 8  Floivcr  d  the  Sea. 

There  grew  a  wonder  in  her  eyes, — 
My  maiden  dainty,  debonair, — 
And  voices  tuned  to  subtler  art 
Were  voluble  within  her  heart 
And  to  her  soul  made  questioning  ; 
She  felt  the  spell,  yet  could  not  tell 
Whence  sudden  shame  so  strangely  came  ; 
Whence  hopes  and  fears  and  tremulous  tears 
And  sweet  surprise  and  quivering  sighs, — 
Half  laughter, — laid  on  lips  that  sing. 
She  could  not  tell ;  she  scarce  need  care, 
My  maiden  slender,  debonair. 

But  I  knew  well.     The  child  had  fled 

And  left  a  woman  in  her  stead  ; 

My  maiden  shy  and  debonair 

Had  'wakened  in  her  Paradise, 

And,  fairer  grown,  had  grown  more  wise, 

Alas  !  as  wise  as  fair. 

And  as  again  beside  the  sea 
We  wandered  homeward  silently, 
I  leaned  and  lightly  touched  her  hair, 
And  said  :  "  Sweet  maiden  debonair, 
A  little  girl  once  found  a  pearl 
Left  by  the  deep  mysterious  tide, — 
A  thing  of  beauty  from  the  wide 
Unfathomed  sea  ;  nor  faltered  she, 
But  in  her  hair  the  treasure  fair 
Set  like  a  dew-drop  in  a  rose. 
And  now,  my  maiden  debonair, 


Marguerite.  119 

Your  heart  has  found  a  gem  more  rare, — 
A  pearl  from  out  the  sea  of  life, — 
Loi>e,  that  the  flowing  tides  enclose. 
The  child  knew  not  ;  the  woman  knows  ; 
And  knowledge  ever  bringeth  strife  ; 
Yet  where  the  pearl  lies,  is  repose, — 
Repose  which  I  would  have  you  share 
With  me,  dear  maiden  debonair." 

She  paused  a  space,  then  gently  drew 
From  out  her  breast  a  pearl,  and  said  : 
"  Forth  from  the  sea  it  came  to  me, 
And  from  my  heart  it  goes  to  you." 
And  lo  !  the  starlight  of  the  skies 
Lay  sleeping  in  her  lifted  eyes, 
And  on  her  brow  a  glory  shed. 
And  faint  across  the  meadows  fell 
The  calling  of  a  vesper  bell 
That  high  above  sang  Love  !  and  Love  ! 
And  ah  !  my  maiden  debonair, 
How  fair  you  were  !  How  passing  fair ! 
As  through  the  sand  we  trod  the  strand 
And  gazed  far  out  to  sea. 


MARGUERITE. 

AIR  Marguerite,  the  red  of  parted  lips 

Grows  deeper,  and  the  glory  of  thy  brow 
More  glorious  yet,  as  lowered  lids  allow 
Swift  glances,  fleeting,  but  as  sweet  as  sips 


1 20  The  Way  o  the  World. 

Of  honey  from  the  hearts  of  flowers.     So  now, 
Poised  in  the  halo  of  the  sun  that  dips 

Behind  the  empurpled  hills,  thy  presence  seems 
The  realized  perfection  of  my  dreams. 

Sweet,  silent  Marguerite  !  How  may  I  name 

The  hundred-tinted  shadows  of  thy  hair  ? 

Or  count  the  liquid  lights  of  eyes  as  rare 
As  polished  pearls  beneath  white  jets  of  flame, 

Or  soft  stars  scintillant  through  lambent  air 
In  the  hushed  night?     How,  seeing  thee,  proclaim 

The  love  I  fain  would  bring,  a  sacrifice 

To  offer  at  the  altar  of  thine  eyes  ? 

Nay,  Marguerite,  I  cannot  ;  for  the  soul 

That  reigns  transcendent  in  the  dwelling-place 
Of  thy  fair  form,  irradiates  thy  face 

With  lustre  pure  as  words  writ  on  the  scroll 
Of  God's  own  law.     I  would  not  dare  erase 

One  faintest  tracery,  although  the  goal 

Which  whispered  words  of  love  ensured  to  me 
Should  be  an  answering  whisper  felt  by  thee. 


THE  WAY  O'  THE  WORLD. 

~\T  ELL  and  I  set  out  together 

In  the  spring — the  heyday  ; 
Nell  and  I,  thro'  fickle  weather, 
Fared  afield  where  cows  at  tether 
Waited  for  the  May-day. 


Philosophy-in-  L  it  tic. 

When  the  birds  were  all  a-feather 

Nell  and  I,  like  true  loves, 
Danced  thro'  sun  and  summer  weather, 
Singing  all  the  while  together, 

Scorning  thoughts  of  new  loves. 

But  when  frost  had  nip't  the  heather 

And  each  hill  and  valley 
Donned  its  gown  of  russet  leather, 
Nell  and  Ned  went  off  together, — 

I  made  love  to  Sallie. 


PHILOSOPHY-IN-LITTLE. 

A    DAY  of  toil  amid  the  moil 

And  muddle  of  the  city, 
I  passed  in  vain  and  sordid  pain 

And  worry,  more  's  the  pity  ! 
I  had  no  heart  for  books  or  art 

Or  labor  of  the  scholars, 
So  crept  to  bed,  with  aching  head, 
And  dreamed  of  dust  and  dollars. 

Upon  the  lawn,  at  early  dawn, 

A  robin  fluted  sweetly, 
He  sang  to  me  so  joyfully 

That  up  I  rose  all  fleetly  ; 
Then  out  I  went  and  all  day  spent 

Amid  the  April  greening, — 
Came  back  at  night,  enamored  quite 

Of  nature  and  her  meaning. 


122  Cupid  and  Justice. 


CUPID  AND  JUSTICE. 

*T^HE  little  God  of  Love  one  day 

While  walking  chanced  to  lose  his  way, 
And  being,  as  the  poets  say, 

Incapable  of  seeing, 
Flung  himself  prone  upon  the  grass, 
To  wait  until  some  friend  should  pass. 
And,  as  he  lay,  a  comely  lass 

Adown  the  road  came  fleeing. 

Her  face  was  fair,  her  temples  white, 
And  tho'  her  step  was  soft  and  light, 
She  too,  alas  !  had  lost  her  sight, 

And  moved  a  trifle  slowly  ; 
She  too,  alas  !  had  lost  her  way, 
And,  ever  going  more  astray, 
Soon  came  to  where  the  Love-God  lay 

Among  the  grasses  lowly. 

Then  Love  uprose,  with  just  a  trace 
Of  mischief  on  his  handsome  face, 
And  said  :     "  My  lady,  grant  me  grace 

That  I  appear  so  stupid  ; 
But  may  I  beg  to  know  your  name  ? " 
"I  am  called  Justice,"  said  the  dame, 
Then  blushed,  as  low  his  answer  came  : 

"And,  madam,  /  am  Cupid." 


A  Rondeau  of  Vassar.  123 

He  lisped  sweet  nothings  in  her  ear, 

She  frowned,  yet  could  not  choose  but  hear  ; 

And  tho'  she  strove  to  look  severe, 

Her  heart  was  in  a  flurry. 
Too  late  they  learned  the  Fates  designed 
They  nevermore  their  way  should  find, 
For  neither  knew  the  other  blind, 

And  both  were  in  a  hurry. 


A  RONDEAU  OF  VASSAR. 

H,  Vassar  girl,  who  fain  would  rise 
Superior  to  Love's  charming  lies  ; 
You  who  prefer  the  themes  that  be 
Modelled  on  Kant's  philosophy  ; 
Potential  ballots  in  your  eyes, 

And  bridge  of  nose,  judicial,  wise — 
In  fact  a  very  Bridge  of  Size 
And  intellectuality, 
Oh,  Vassar  girl ! 

You  're  fair,  yet  from  you  Cupid  flies 

With  cramps  as  though  he  'd  dined  on  pies  ; 

For,  suaviter  in  modo,  he 

Finds  you  too  fortiter  in  re, 
And  so  to  lesser  culture  hies, 
Oh,  Vassar  girl ! 


124  Ballade  to  a  Bookman. 


EVOLUTION  OF  THE  POET. 

~\X  fHEN  dryads  lived  and  sought  to  brim 

Ladona  to  the  sparkling  spring 
Where  shaggy  Pan  was  wont  to  sit 
And  pipe  his  ditties,  poets  writ 
With  pens  plucked  from  the  swelling  wing 
Of  Pegasus,  nor  felt  the  sting 
Hid  in  the  average  critic's  fling : 
Poeta  nascitur  non  fit, 
When  dryads  lived. 

But  nowadays  the  proper  thing 
Is  first  to  get  within  the  ring, 
And,  having  made  a  single  hit, 
An  ounce  of  sense, — a  grain  of  wit, — 
Will  do  the  rest ;  no  need  to  sing 
"  When  dryads  lived." 


BALLADE    TO  A  BOOKMAN. 

/CROTCHETY  delver  in  books, 

^•^   Hater  of  all  that  is  new, 

Seeker  of  cosiest  nooks 

Known  to  the  favorite  few, 
Why  should  you  ever  ask  who 

Fateward  defiance  hath  hurled  ? 
Delver  in  books  it  is  you  — 

You  who  have  conquered  the  world. 


A  Rondeau  in  Reply.  125 

Snuffy  old  fellow,  whose  looks 

Hint  of  a  wig  and  a  queue, 
Scorning  the  cates  of  the  cooks 

For  a  pewter  of  ale  and  a  stew, 

Why  should  you  ever  be  blue, 
Seeing  that  runnels  have  purled, 

Since  the  beginning,  for  you  — 
You  who  have  conquered  the  world  ? 

Intimate  friend  of  Home  Tooke's, 

Chum  of  the  Wandering  Jew, 
Rating  reformers  as  "  crooks  " 

And  lovers  as  enfants  perdus, 

Why  should  you  ever  pursue 
Ways  of  the  folk  who  are  swirled 

Into  the  popular  view  — 
You  who  have  conquered  the  world  ? 

ENVOI. 

Dream,  as  you  ruminate  through 
Smoke  into  canopies  curled  ; 

Dream,  for  you  Ve  nothing  to  do  — 
You  who  have  conquered  the  world. 


A    RONDEAU    IN    REPLY. 

T  N  fallow  fields  I  long  to  lie  — 
A  bookman  lost  in  Arcady  ; 
Or,  steeped  in  grasses  to  the  knees, 
To  follow  fast  where  fancy  flees  ; 


1 26  Ballade. 

Though  musty  lore  and  legend  die, 
I  'd  give  my  conquered  world  to  sigh 
An  answer  to  the  lullaby 

Hot-hummed  by  honey-loaden  bees 
In  fallow  fields. 

A-dream  'neath  circumambient  sky, 
To  list  the  crow's  remoter  cry, 

The  while  the  love-begetting  breeze 
Flutters  the  leafy  hearts  of  trees 
And  turns  the  heads  of  foolish  rye 
In  fallow  fields. 


BALLADE. 

TV/TAIDEN,  if  within  thy  breast 
***   Lurks  the  trust  that  thou  shalt  seize 
From  life's  love  the  purest,  best, 
Quaffing  nectar,  while  the  lees 
Mingle  not ;  upon  thy  knees 
Quickly  fall  for  guidance.     Never 

Dally  with  false  dreams  that  please  ; 
Love  and  wine  deceive  us  ever. 

Youth,  who,  at  the  soft  behest 
Of  the  ruddy  wine-cup,  ease 

And  the  sense  of  being  blest 
Seekest,  know  thy  destinies 
But  await  fulfilment ;  these 

Shall  not  stay  though  thou  be  clever ; 


Rondeau.  \  27 

Follows  fate  where  fortune  flees  ; 
Love  and  wine  deceive  us  ever. 

Lover,  who,  upon  the  crest 

Of  the  waves  of  Paphian  seas, 
Think'st  to  find  ecstatic  rest 

Mid  love's  charms  and  panoplies, 

Drown  thy  dreams  in  medias  res  ; 
Happiness  waits  on  endeavor  ; 

Joys  unearned  are  miseries  ; 
Love  and  wine  deceive  us  ever. 

ENVOI. 

Youths  and  maids  of  all  degrees, 

Heads  must  learn  though  hearts  should  sever  ; 
Butterflies  have  stings  of  bees  ; 

Love  and  wine  deceive  us  ever. 


RONDEAU. 

T  N  days  of  old,  when  gods  divine 
"    Quaffed  potent  draughts  of  golden  wine 
From  crystal  goblets,  and  in  glee 
Sported  with  dolphins  in  the  sea, 
Or  strayed  beneath  the  oak  and  pine, 

The  poet  but  waited  for  a  sign, 
And  through  his  pen  the  immortal  Nine 
Spake  all  delicious  things  that  be 
In  days  of  old. 


128  Rondeau. 

But  now  the  gods  have  grown  so  fine 
They  keep  at  home,  and  not  a  line 
The  muses  give  to  you  and  me  ; 
But,  having  come  to  drinking  tea, 
Lose  brilliance,  and  so  only  shine 
In  days  of  old. 

THE     END. 


{THE  LIBRARY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
I.OS  ANGELES 


•O  s\ 


i  |J     Illll  ii         '     "-,''   r- 

3  1158  00481  7515 


A    000114423     7 


